
















CANNOT LEAVE THE LIBRARY. 


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ANGEL 




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“A woman is a foreign land 
Of which, though there he settle young, 

A man will ne’er quite understand 
The customs, politics, and tongue.” 

The Angel in the House. 


ANGEL 

A SKETCH IN 
INDIAN 
INK 





By BfM. CROKER 

Author of “ Beyond the Pale,** 
'‘Infatuation,** etc. 


NEW YORK 

SDoDU, ^ Company 

1901 

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Copyright, 1901, 

By Dodd, Mead & Company. 


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THE BURR PRINTING HOUSE^ 
NEW YORK. 


DEDICATED 


T O 


A. PERRIN 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. PATIENCE ON A GATE, I 

II. IN THE VERANDAH, 10 

• III. AN EARLY VISIT, IQ 

IV. ANGEL IN EXCELSIS, 27 

V. THE LUCKNOW ROAD, 34 

VI. LATE FOR MESS, .42 

VII. MRS. Dawson’s dresses, 48 

VIII. THE PICNIC, 58 

IX. THE BEQUEST, 66 

X. A CHALLENGE, 78 

XI. WHO IS SHE? 92 

XII. ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET, 98 

XIII. angel’s WINGS ARE CLIPPED, IO5 

XIV. Philip’s love affair, 115 

XV. LOLA, ...••••••• 126 

XVI. GRANDMAMMA, 134 

XVII. THE unexpected, I46 

XVIII. DINNER FOR TWO, 159 

XIX. THE PARTING GUESTS, 175 

XX. A DESTROYING ANGEL, 183 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXI. “think it over,” 193 

XXII. “a white elephant and a white rose,” . . 209 

XXIII. ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS, . 217 

XXIV. THE SOOTHSAYER, 228 

XXV. THE CHITACHAR CLUB, 239 

XXVI. IN ANGELAS TENT, • . . 255 

XXVII. “the sin,” 266 

XXVIII. MAKING FRIENDS, 2 .^^ 

XXIX. LAST year’s NEST, 286 

XXX. A WHITED SEPULCHRE, 29I 

XXXI. FISHING FOR AN INVITATION, .... 296 

XXXII. BY PROXY, 303 

XXXIII. EXPLANATION, 313 

XXXIV. A REFUGEE, 32O 

XXXV. A GOOD BILLET, 33O 

XXXVI. JOINT HOSTESS, 337 

XXXVII. IN GARHWAL, 344 

XXXVIII. INTERLOPERS, 355 

XXXIX. TO DIE WITH YOU, 365 

XL. THE INTRUDER, 375 


ANGEL 


CHAPTER I 

'^PATIENCE ON A GATE" 

It was the middle of March in the North-West 
Provinces, and the hot weather had despatched sev- 
eral heralds to Ramghur, announcing its imminent 
approach. Punkahs were swinging lazily in barrack 
rooms, the annual ice notice had made a round of 
the station, many families had quitted the swelter- 
ing cantonments for the misty Himalayas, and the 
brain fever bird had arrived! Moreover, the red- 
capped tennis boys were on half-pay, the polo 
ground was abandoned, the club reading-room had 
cancelled all the ladies’ papers, and its long dim 
verandah presented a melancholy vista of empty 
chairs. 

Outside in the gardens, and all over the district, 
cork trees, acacias, and stately teak upheld their 
naked branches, as if in agonised appeal to a pitiless 
blue sky, whilst their leaves, crisp and shrivelled, 
choked the neighbouring nullahs, or were chased 
up and down the dusty plains and roads by a howl- 
ing hot wind. 

At a corner where two of these roads met, and 
about a mile from the club, stood a large irregular 
bungalow, with a thatched roof and walls of a vivid 


2 


ANGEL 


pink complexion, as if it were blushing — as well it 
might — for its straggling and neglected compound. 
The gate of this was closed, and through its wooden 
bars a white-faced shabby little girl was gazing 
intently. Otherwise the premises appeared to be 
deserted; the servants were presumably smoking 
and gossiping in the bazaar, the stables were empty, 
the very dogs were out. No, there was not a living 
creature to be seen, except a couple of quarrelsome 
crows and this solitary child. Although Angel Gas- 
coigne had elevated herself by standing on the 
second rung of the gate, she was unable to lean 
comfortably on the top bar, but peered below like 
some caged creature, for she was remarkably small 
for her age. Indeed, if any of her acquaintance had 
been suddenly called upon to name it, they would 
have answered, ‘‘Oh — Angel! She is about six.” 
Nevertheless, it was nine years, and long, long years 
to Angel, since she had come into the world in a 
damp little bungalow in distant Dalhousie. 

She wore a limp cotton frock, a pinafore to corre- 
spond, black stockings, much darned at the knees, 
and shapeless sand shoes ludicrously large for her 
fairy feet. Her arms and head were bare, the latter 
covered with a mane of sun-bleached locks ; her face 
was small, pinched, and prematurely wise, but the 
features were delicate, and the whole countenance 
was illuminated by a pair of painfully wistful blue 
eyes. The child’s pose was touching. She looked 
exactly what she was — forlorn, desolate, and neg- 
lected. For a whole hour she remained motionless 
at her post, and while she watched and waited, vari- 
ous vehicles had passed ; among these, a large 


“PATIENCE ON A GATE’’ 3 

landau containing two languid women propped up 
with cushions and waving date leaf fans. They 
smiled and nodded affably to Angel, and as they 
rolled slowly by, young Mrs. Gordon said to the 
lady who was taking her for an airing : 

'‘There is that poor child of Mrs. Wilkinson’s. 
What a weird little face! It is positively disgrace- 
ful the way she is overlooked and left to servants.” 

“Yes,” agreed her companion. “The result of her 
mother’s second marriage. Colonel Wilkinson is 
wrapped up in his bank-book and his boys. Mrs. 
Wilkinson is wrapped up in her clothes. I do believe 
that woman’s heart is composed of a reel of cotton, 
and unfortunate Cinderella is left in the kitchen — 
there is no fairy godmother for her. She ought to 
have been sent home years ago,” continued Mrs. 
Jones, with the authority of one who is dealing with 
her friend’s expenditure. 

“There is no doubt of that,” assented Mrs. Gor- 
don, a very pretty Irish girl who had recently come 
to India as the wife of a civilian. “Some one told 
me the other day that Angel is twelve years of age.” 

“Oh, dear no,” replied Mrs. Jones, with a touch of 
irritation, “I remember when she was born. I re- 
member her mother when she came up to Simla, such 
a lovely girl, and that is not more than ten years ago. 
She had a host of admirers, and of course she took 
the least desirable; handsome, penniless, reckless 
Tony Gascoigne. They could not have done worse, 
either of them, if they had tried.” 

“And now since he is dead, and his widow has 
married again, it seems to me that it is poor little 
Gascoigne who suffers for that foolish match,” de- 


ANGEL 


4 

dared the other lady. “The child should be at school 
— if only the money was forthcoming.’^ 

“But with Colonel Wilkinson’s economies, and 
Lena Wilkinson’s extravagances, there is not much 
prospect of that,'* rejoined Mrs. Jones, and the sub- 
ject dropped. 

The landau was succeeded by a smart victoria, in 
which was seated a stiff-backed lady in a dainty mus- 
lin gown. This was Mrs. Dawson, the Judge’s wife, 
who vouchsafed no notice of Angel beyond a glance 
of stern disapproval. Next came an ekka packed 
with chattering native women, who laughed and 
made merry signals to the little figure on the gate, 
but the child took no notice of their blandishments, 
her face still retained its expression of rigid expec- 
tation. At last she stirred, there was a faint sound 
of muffled hoofs in the sandy lane which bordered 
the compound wall, and in another moment two men 
on horseback came into sight. These were comrades, 
who chummed together in a dilapidated bungalow at 
the back of Colonel Wilkinson’s abode. The slight 
dark man, riding a few paces in advance, was Philip 
Gascoigne, a Royal Engineer, reputed to be the 
owner of the hardest head and the softest heart in 
the station. His companion, following on a flea-bit- 
ten grey, was Wilfred Shafto, subaltern in a crack 
regiment of native cavalry, a loose-jointed, long- 
legged youth, whose curly locks, gay blue eyes, and 
admirable profile, went far to justify his nickname of 
“Beauty Shafto.” Besides his good looks, Shafto 
was endowed with an exuberant vitality and a stock 
of animal spirits, that even the hot weather failed to 
subdue. Both he and his chum were popular in the 


PATIENCE ON A GATE” 5 

cantonment, being keen soldiers, cheery comrades, 
and, above all, good fellows ; but Shafto only was a 
universal favourite, for he was a ladies* man. Yet, 
strange to say, it was not Shafto but Gascoigne who 
reined up in order to speak to the little girl at the 
gate. He merely gazed, grinned, and jeered, say- 
ing, “Hullo, a case of confined to barracks, young 
*un ! — in disgrace again, eh ? I say, there’s a five-act 
tragedy in that face, Phil. Don’t be late for rack- 
ets,” and shaking up his old Arab, he heartlessly 
cantered away. 

“Well, Angel, what’s the meaning of this?” in- 
quired Gascoigne, leaning over his pony’s neck. 
“Not in trouble, I hope?” 

The child raised her great eyes to his, and slowly 
shook her head. 

“Then what is the matter?” he repeated. “What 
have you been doing now ?” 

"‘Tve not been doing anything,” she protested in a 
clear but woeful treble. “Mother and Colonel Wil- 
kinson have gone to Dolly Tollemache’s birthday 
party, and taken all the children — ^but — I had” — 
here two crystal tears escaped from her long lashes — 
“no hat.” 

“Poor little soul!” exclaimed Gascoigne, “that 
was bad luck. What happened to your hat ?” 

“Beany threw it in the tank, and oh — I wanted to 
go so much.” Her voice rose to a pitiful wail as she 
added, “Dolly is my friend — and there was a bran 
pie.” 

“And I am your friend as well as Dolly, am I 
not?” he urged. 

“Oh, yes,” and she gazed up at him with swim- 


6 


ANGEL 


ming eyes. “Of course — you are my cousin Philip 
— but you don’t live with me, and I am so miser- 
able,” she faltered. “The servants push me about, 
and the children pinch me, and Colonel Wilkinson 
calls me a liar and — a little devil.” 

Here she broke down and, resting her head on her 
skinny arms, sobbed hysterically. 

“He did not mean it, Angel,” protested her cousin. 
“I am sure Colonel Wilkinson was not in earnest ; he 
is a kind-hearted man, and looks the soul of good 
humour.” 

''Looks!” she flashed out furiously. “Yes, and he 
is good-humoured with the children, but you should 
see him when the bearer brings his account, or when 
a shop bill comes in. I wish you saw his looks then ! 
And he hates me. Only this morning he said I was 
a viper on his hearth and a curse. Oh,” with an- 
other outburst, “I wish I was dead — like my own 
father.” 

Gascoigne dismounted hastily and putting his 
hand upon her shoulder, said, “Come, Angel, this is 
very bad. You are a silly child, and imagine things 
— it’s all the hot weather, and you are feeling a bit 
slack and out of sorts. You will soon be up in the 
hills, gathering pine cones and orchids.” 

“No, indeed I shan’t,” she rejoined, as she raised 
her head and confronted him with an expression of 
despair on her small tear-stained face. “Mother says 
she can’t afford it this year. She is going to send 
baby to Mrs. Browne, but we must all stay down. 
Oh, how I hate Ramghur,” and her eyes roved over 
their brick-coloured, dusty surroundings, “I wish I 
was dead.” 


‘‘PATIENCE ON A GATE” 


7 

^‘My poor Angel ! this is melancholy news. Why 
should you cut yourself off at the age of nine? I 
hope you have a long and merry life before you.” 

'‘Why should I live?” she demanded fiercely, “no 
one wants mef* 

“Don’t you think your mother wants you?” 

“No,” she answered breathlessly in gasps, “she 
has the children — she would never miss me. They 
went off in the bullock bandy, so dressed up and 
noisy, Pinky in mother’s own blue sash, all going to 
enjoy themselves, and not one of them even looked 
back. The servants are at a funeral, and I’ve been 
alone the whole evening.” 

This pitiful tale was illustrated by a pathetic little 
face streaming with tears. 

“Now then, listen to me, Angel,” said the young 
man, impressively, “I believe you’ve been running 
about in the sun, and have got a touch of fever, and 
besides, you take things too much to heart.” 

“No I don’t,” she answered passionately, “every- 
one says I have no heart — and no one cares for me.” 

“That’s bosh,” he protested, “your mother cares 
— and so do I.” Here he stooped, and dried her tears 
with his own handkerchief. 

“Do you really, cousin Phil?” suddenly seizing 
his hand with her hot nervous fingers. “Really — 
not make-believe?” 

“I never make-believe — really.” 

“Then — I am — glad,” and now the elf clasped his 
arm, and looked up at him fixedly, “for I do love 
you, as much as mother, yes, and more than the 
whole big world.” 

“That’s a large order, my child,” stroking her 


8 


ANGEL 


cheek. “You have not seen the world yet — ^you 
won’t repeat that in ten years’ time. And now I 
must be off, or I shall be late. Look here,” speaking 
from the saddle, “I’ll come over to-morrow, and ask 
your mother if I may take you for a drive. How will 
that be, eh?” 

“Not,” clapping her hands ecstatically, “with 
Sally Lunn !” 

“Why not with Sally, and for a good ten mile 
spin into the country beyond the railway.” 

“Oh, how splendid. And it’s moonlight, too. I 
shan’t sleep one wink for thinking of to-morrow.” 

“In that case I warn you, I shall leave you be- 
hind,” he announced as he gathered up his reins. 
“Cheer up, Angel, and don’t let me hear any more 
about dying. Good-bye,” and wheeling his impatient 
pony, he turned her head towards the maidan, and 
galloped away over the flat parade ground which lay 
between the bungalow and the club, raising as he 
went a cloud of red dust. 

Angel stood motionless staring after him, till a 
huge peepul tree hid him from her gaze. “A drive in 
his beautiful dogcart,” she said to herself, “with its 
dark blue cushions and red wheels, and crazy Sally, 
the fastest trotter in Ramghur. Phil never took 
grown-up ladies for a drive — yet she was invited — 
she hoped he would go right through the bazaar so 
that everyone might see them! The Wallace chil- 
dren and that sneering Dodd boy. How delicious! 
But what was she to do for a hat?” As she stood 
pondering this momentous question, with an old, 
care-worn expression on her child’s face, a fat ayah 


“PATIENCE ON A GATE’’ 9 

suddenly appeared near the bungalow and shrieked 
out in Hindustani : 

“Missy Angel — what you doing there? Come 
away from the road, oh shameless one! Wicked 
child, without hat or topee. Supper is ready, come 
therefore at once. Think of what the Colonel Sahib 
will say if he sees thee thus.” 

This shrill invocation was all delivered in one 
breath. When it had concluded, the child turned 
about, slipped off the gate, and with unexpected 
alacrity ran up the drive, and was presently swal- 
lowed by the shadows of a long verandah. 


CHAPTER II 


IN THE VERANDAH 

Before the station clock had chimed six the fol- 
lowing morning, every soul in the Wilkinsons' bun- 
galow was astir. The portly head of the house, clad 
in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white 
charger, had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over 
the cantonment rations. In the long west verandah, 
the bamboo blinds were already down in order to 
keep out the blinding glare, and behind these 
‘‘chicks” the entire family was assembled. Three 
podgy, pasty-faced children were solemnly playing 
at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in lu- 
dicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. 
The fourth was a mere spectator in the arms of the 
fat ayah who with her understudy kept order among 
the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a 
whimper, or a howl, arose from their corner, but tak- 
ing them en masse, Beany, Pinky Tod, and Baba 
were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They 
ate well, slept well, and conducted themselves se- 
dately. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that they 
were not fair to see, but then we all know that it is 
better to be good than beautiful. A painful illustra- 
tion of this axiom was beside them, in the shape of 
their half-sister Angel, who with puckered brows 
and compressed lips, was labouring away at a hand- 


IN THE VERANDAH 


1 1 

sewing machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly 
hemmed frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so 
— indeed, she said so herself — but even the dog boy 
was aware that Missy Angel was not good, did not 
want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible 
fact. Angel assured her brothers that it was a thou- 
sand times nicer to be wicked. She would not eat 
cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven o’clock, 
she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the 
ayahs scolded her. 

Not far from Angel squatted the dirzee, a thin, 
grave-eyed man in spotless white clothes and turban. 
He was holding a piece of muslin between two of 
his toes, and cutting down a neatly marked crease 
with a pair of gigantic scissors. This was Kadir 
Bux, a capable workman, and Mrs. Wilkinson’s 
much coveted treasure. Nor was Mrs. Wilkinson 
herself idle, although she reclined on a long cane 
lounge, propped up with cushions. She was intently 
occupied in trimming a smart evening bodice. One 
glance proved sufficient, to assure us that the lady 
was clever with her fingers, for she turned and 
twisted the lace with the audacious familiarity of a 
practised hand. It is said, that could they but dis- 
cover it, everyone is endowed with a special gift; 
there are thousands of mortals who go through life 
unconscious of their own capacities, but Mrs. Wil- 
kinson was one of those more fortunate beings who 
had found her metier, and gloried in its exercise. 
She was an accomplished milliner and a really first- 
class dressmaker. In all the province there was not 
a woman who could put in a sleeve, tie a bow, or 
hang a skirt as well as Angel’s mamma. Once upon 


ANGEL 


I 2 

a time — and that time not very distant — Mrs. Wil- 
kinson had been a beauty, but continuous hot seasons 
on the plains, harassing money cares, and indifferent 
health had combined to filch her of her good looks. 
There were hard lines about her mouth, her cheeks 
had fallen in, and her complexion — only appeared in 
the evening. Of course, in early morning deshabille 
we do not expect to see a lady at her best. Still, her 
carelessly arranged hair was abundant, her features 
were delicate, and her blue eyes had not yet lost 
the power of their spell. Black-lashed, plaintive blue 
eyes, what had they not achieved for their owner? 
How much she owes to them. What difficulties sur- 
mounted, what favours granted — what friends ! 
They resembled in potency some fabled talisman; 
their mistress had but to wish, look, and possess. 
Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkinson’s ambition was of a 
moderate character. She merely desired to be the 
best-dressed woman in her circle, that is to say sta- 
tion, and hitherto her pre-eminence had been su- 
preme. 

‘‘The Mrs. Wilkinson who dresses so well,” en- 
joyed a fame that went beyond the bounds of her 
own province, and had even been echoed in much 
maligned Madras. 

Just at present this celebrity, her eldest born, and 
her faithful dirzee were labouring hard in order to 
maintain this far-reaching reputation. The scene in 
which they slaved was no bad imitation of the work- 
room of some smart dressmaker. Chairs were piled 
with materials, the matting was littered with scraps 
of lace, muslin, and calico; patterns and fashion- 
plates lay scattered around, and in the foreground 


IN THE VERANDAH 


13 

was a wicker dress-stand, surmounted by an exact 
model of Mrs. Wilkinson’s own graceful figure — a 
costly but indispensable possession. At this moment 
it was attired in an elaborate white ball skirt and low 
satin bodice, and at a little distance appeared to be 
one of the party in the verandah. 

To slave for days, nay weeks, at her sewing 
machine, to cut up, contrive and piece, scanty ma- 
terials; to ponder for hours over patterns, confer 
with an unimaginative native, cope with failures, 
and plunge into debt, were a few of the draw- 
backs to Mrs. Wilkinson’s pre-eminence. But in- 
convenience, anxiety, and self-denial were forgot- 
ten when she appeared in an incomparable 
“success,” conscious of triumph, aware that she 
was the cynosure of all eyes, and that even in church 
she absorbed the attention of half the congregation. 
It is true that certain rivals, women with ungrudging 
husbands, replenished their wardrobes from London 
and Paris. Nevertheless, with even these, this tal- 
ented artiste was able to compete, for she was en- 
dowed with the gift of wearing, as well as of design- 
ing, her matchless toilettes. Her figure was slender 
and graceful, and in a smart evening gown, with 
just the least little touch on her cheeks, Mrs. Wilkin- 
son still held her own in a ball-room; her dancing 
was perfection, and, next to dress, her sole passion. 

As for the lady’s past, despite her craze for dress 
and dancing, it was extraordinarily monotonous, and 
uneventful. 

* s|t 5K 5jC ^ * 

Miss Lena Shardlow, a charming but penniless 
orphan, had arrived at Simla, some years before this 


ANGEL 


H 

story opens, on a cold weather visit to distant rela- 
tions, who invited her out, in the benevolent hope 
that Lena’s pretty face would prove her fortune. If, 
as they afterwards declared, she had played her cards 
properly, Lena might have married a member of 
Council; it was true that he had already seen the 
grave close over two wives, also that he was neither 
young nor comely, but he could offer Lena a splen- 
did position as his wife, and a fine pension as his 
widow. The girl had many admirers — indeed, she 
was the success of the season. Among these ad- 
mirers was Tony Gascoigne, a feather-brained junior 
subaltern in the Silver Hussars. Tony was hand- 
some and well connected, but reckless and impecu- 
nious. In an evil moment a brother officer had ad- 
vised him ‘‘not to make a fool of himself with the lit- 
tle Shardlow girl,” and the warning proved imme- 
diately fatal. He married her within six weeks — 
her friends were not present at the ceremony — and 
brought his lovely bride down to Umballa in insup- 
pressed triumph. Sad to relate, this triumph proved 
but short-lived — it was cruelly slain in the regi- 
mental orderly room, and died by the hand of Tony’s 
commanding officer. Colonel St. Oriel had a strong 
prejudice against married subalterns, and a married 
subaltern of a year’s standing was only surpassed 
by the notorious miscreant who had actually joined 
his regiment with a wife and a perambulator. 

It was whispered in the mess, that when “the old 
man” received cards and cake, he had actually 
gnashed his teeth. At any rate, the proud bridegroom 
was sent on detachment within twenty-four hours. A 
year later, when Tony and his wife were on leave in 


IN THE VERANDAH 15 

the hills, one wet black night, his pony lost his hind 
legs over the brink of a slippery khud, and Tony’s 
book of life was closed at page twenty-three. He left 
a widow and a puny infant in a cheap bungalow, not 
a hundred yards from the scene of the tragedy. He 
also left many debts. At first poor Mrs. Gascoigne 
was stunned, then inconsolable, although her kind 
neighbours came forward to her assistance in a fash- 
ion peculiar to India. For weeks she remained in 
cloister-like seclusion, waiting for the monsoon to 
abate, before returning to England, where it would 
be her fate to live on distant relations and a pension 
of thirty pounds a year. Ere three months had 
elapsed, it was noticed that Major Wilkinson, of the 
Commissariat, despatched baskets of tempting fruit 
and rare flowers to a certain retired bungalow. 
These, as days went by, he boldly followed in person, 
and long before the year was out, an engagement 
was announced, and all the world of Dalhousie de- 
clared, that little Mrs. Gascoigne had done remark- 
ably well for herself and her child. Major Wilkin- 
son was neither young nor dashing, he had also the 
reputation of being “careful with his money.” On 
the other hand, he was a sensible man, with savings 
in the Bank of Bengal, and a small property in New 
Zealand. The middle-aged Major was unmistak- 
ably in love with the pretty blue-eyed widow, but, to 
impart a secret, he had never exhibited the smallest 
enthusiasm for her offspring, and now that he had 
four sturdy olive branches of his own, indifference 
had developed into unconcealed aversion. Perhaps 
(for he was a model parent) he may have been a lit- 
tle jealous of his step-daughter’s airy grace and 


ANGEL 


i6 

high-bred features. Angel was an aristocrat to the 
tips of her shocking sand-shoes, whilst his own be- 
loved progeny were undeniably bourgeois — stumpy, 
stolid, heavy children, whose faces recalled the col- 
our and contour of a cream cheese. Although 
Colonel Wilkinson scaled sixteen stone, he was an ac- 
tive, bustling man — indeed some people considered 
him ‘‘fussy” — an excellent organiser and adminis- 
trator in his official capacity, whilst at home in the 
domestic circle he saw to everything himself, thus 
relieving his Lena of all housekeeping cares. He 
checked the bazaar accounts, gave out the stores, oil 
and fodder, ordered the meals and hectored the ser- 
vants — he even instructed the ayah, and harried the 
milkman — the only person over whom he had no 
control was the dirzee. Consequently Lena had noth- 
ing to do but compose costumes, amuse herself, and 
look pretty. In her heart of hearts, Angel, her first- 
born, was her mother’s favourite child, but no whis- 
per of this weakness ever escaped her lips. She was 
too painfully aware, that Richard was excessively 
jealous of the claims of his family, whom he idolised. 

Of course Angel ought to have been sent home, no 
one was more alive to this duty than her parent, but 
unhappily Mrs. Wilkinson had no private income; 
she was compelled to ask for every rupee she ex- 
pended, and it was with difficulty she obtained a 
slender sum for the children’s clothes. As for her 
own toilettes, her husband liked to see her in pretty 
gowns, he was proud of them, and of her, but when 
it came to paying — oh ! that was another affair alto- 
gether. Every bill she presented to him entailed a 


IN THE VERANDAH 


17 

battle — or at least an argument, and what of those 
bills, those frightful bills, she dared not let him see ? 

If Colonel Wilkinson growled savagely wljen 
called upon to disburse for Angel’s meagre ward- 
robe, how could her mother hope for a substantial 
cheque to defray her outfit, passage, and education? 
Much as Colonel Wilkinson disliked the child, he 
had not the heart to open his purse strings and pro- 
vide for her removal to another home and hemi- 
sphere. 

Angel was naturally intelligent, and had picked up 
the art of reading and writing, without perceptible 
labour. The occasional lessons of an Eurasian 
schoolmistress had introduced her to the multiplica- 
tion table, and the outlines of history and geography. 
She spoke Hindustani with the facility and correct- 
ness of an Indian-born child. She could sing the 
“Tazza Ba Tazza,” and dance like a nautch girl, and 
the servants alternately bullied and feared her. They 
were all somewhat distrustful of “Missy Angel.” 
She knew too much — she was too wise. 

As Angel sat on the floor of the verandah, her 
sharp white face bent intently on the needle, her thin 
arm tirelessly turning the handle of the sewing 
machine, her thoughts were not with her task. She 
was wondering why the ayah’s sister happened to 
wear a jacket of similar stuff to the piece which was 
sliding through her hands ? Stolen of course — how, 
and when ? Oh, what a pig Anima was ; and it was 
late, and Philip had not come. Had he forgotten his 
promise, he who never forgot a promise ? She rose 
stealthily, and went to a “chick,” pulled it a little 


i8 


ANGEL 


aside and peered out. Nothing to be seen but the 
brick-coloured compound, the sandy drive, the cork 
trees, a quiver in the heated air. 

“Missy Angel, what you doing ?’^ screamed the 
ayah, “what you looking for? Go back and sit 
down.” 

Angel returned to her post with noiseless steps, 
but as she resumed her task, she held up the muslin 
towards the ayah, and said : 

“You see this, Anima? Some is stolen. I was 
only looking for the thief. Do you know her?” 


CHAPTER III 


AN EARLY VISIT 

Anima ayah pounced upon the gage thus reck- 
lessly flung at her, and was proceeding to pour out 
the seven vials of her wrath in a lava-like stream, 
when, luckily for her challenger, the sound of hoofs 
outside, a spurred heel on the steps, created a diver- 
sion. Then a man’s voice called up, “Hullo, Lena, 
are you at home?” 

Instantly the dirzee seized the half-clad figure in 
his arms, and eloped with it indoors, whilst Angel 
sprang to the blind, dragged it back, and ushered 
in Philip Gascoigne. 

“Well, little one,” he said, taking her limp hand in 
his, “How are you to-day? Lena, please don’t 
move.” For Mrs. Wilkinson had struggled up, and 
now sat erect on her long cane lounge, vainly en- 
deavouring to make the end of her old tea gown 
cover the toes of her shabby slippers. 

“I’m only going to stay five minutes,” continued 
her visitor, seating himself astride a chair. “How 
did you enjoy the children’s party?” 

“Not much,” she answered with a laugh. 

“And Angel — not at all, eh?” 

“Angel !” cried Mrs. Wilkinson, suddenly raising 
her voice, “do stop that horrible machine, and run 
away and learn your lessons.” 


20 


ANGEL 


Angel paused in her labours, drew her beautifully 
marked eyebrows together, and looked curiously at 
her mother. Then she rose, handed her frill to the 
dirzee, and obediently withdrew, vanishing through 
one of the many doors into the interior of the bunga- 
low — but not to learn her lessons. Oh no, she went 
straight to Mrs. Wilkinson’s bedroom, hunted about 
for a certain library book, and settled herself com- 
fortably on a sofa. There, stretched at full length, 
with a couple of cushions carefully arranged at her 
back, she resembled a small edition of her mother! 
Presently she opened the novel, found her place, and 
began to read. The name of the novel was “Moths.” 

In the meanwhile conversation in the verandah 
was proceeding; as soon as her daughter had disap- 
peared, Mrs. Wilkinson resumed : 

'T left Angel at home as a punishment; it’s only 
the punishment she feels.” 

“She feels a good many things,” rejoined 
Gascoigne. “What has she been up to now ?” 

“Oh, never mind,” retorted the lady, with a touch 
of irritation. “You think Angel is an angel.” 

“Excuse me, I do not ; but she is only a child — we 
were children ourselves. Why are you all so rough 
on her?” 

“I’m sure I’m not rough on her,” protested Mrs. 
Wilkinson in a highly injured key, “but she is al- 
ways rubbing Richard up the wrong way — ^he is so 
sensitive, too, and only the other day she called him 
a ‘mud cart officer.’ Really, I can’t imagine where 
she picks up her awful expressions.” 

“She picks up everything, I fancy — chaff and 
corn,” remarked her cousin. 


AN EARLY VISIT 


21 


''At any rate, Richard simply detests her,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Wilkinson. "I keep her out of his way 
as much as possible, as he hates the very sight of 
her. He says you never know what she is going 
to do next; she plays the most unexpected tricks, 
she is heartless, untruthful, and fond of luxury.” 

Gascoigne broke into a short, incredulous laugh. 
"What! that thin, shabby little child. My dear 
Lena, she does not know what the word luxury 
means.” 

Her mother heaved a profound sigh as she 
answered, “Remember, I do not say these horrid 
things. I know that Angel is not heartless ; she has 
strong feelings, she is devoted to me — and she sim- 
ply worships you” 

"Oh, bosh!” he exclaimed, with a gesture of 
protest. 

"But it is true, I assure you, that in Angel’s eyes 
you are something between a Fairy Prince and a 
Holy Saint, and quite perfect. She actually threw 
a milk jug at Pinky, because he said you were ugly.” 

Gascoigne laughed a hearty laugh, displaying his 
nice white teeth. He could well afford to despise 
Pinky’s opinion, for, although no rival to Beauty 
Shafto, Gascoigne was a good-looking fellow, and 
made a conspicuous and agreeable figure in that 
somewhat squalid verandah, with his trim uniform 
and well-groomed air. His forehead and jaw were 
square, his eyes dark, cool, and penetrating; the 
whole expression indicated keen intelligence and ab- 
solute self-control. 

Altogether it was an interesting face. A face that 
had left its impress on most people’s memories. 


22 


ANGEL 


“Threw the milk jug,” he repeated; “that was 
scarcely the retort courteous ; but I’m glad to see she 
made a bad shot,” and he glanced at Pinky’s round 
and stolid countenance. “What’s all this finery 
for?” he continued, timidly touching the satin in her 
lap. 

“To make me beautiful,” she answered. “Men’s 
garments are so hideous that women have to do dou- 
ble duty. I am going to wear this at the Giffards’ 
cotillion to-morrow night.” 

“A dance, this weather. What lunacy !” 

“It may seem so to you, who never enter a ball- 
room, but I must do something to keep myself going, 
and it’s cool enough as yet, after eleven o’clock. 
Half-a-dozen waltzes are a better tonic for me than 
any amount of quinine.” 

“Long may you live to say so,” he exclaimed, “but 
waltzing with the thermometer at lOO, I should call 
the dance of death. Mind you don’t overdo it, Lena 
mia,” and he looked at her narrowly. 

Lena Wilkinson was a delicate woman, thin and 
worn, with an insatiable appetite for excitement and 
amusement. Her social triumphs and secret labours 
drew heavily on the bank of a frail constitution, and 
no one but herself ever guessed how often she trem- 
bled on the verge of a serious breakdown. 

“I say,” resumed Gascoigne, “I came to ask if I 
may take Angel for a drive this evening? You have 
no objection, have you?” he added, as Mrs. Wilkin- 
son’s expression conveyed blank amazement. “At 
any rate, it will clear her out of Wilkinson’s path for 
a couple of hours,” he concluded persuasively. 


AN EARLY VISIT 


23 

''But she will think so much of it, and be so flat- 
tered and cock-a-hoop,” protested her mother. 

"Lena,” and his eyes sparkled angrily, "do you 
grudge the poor kid even this little pleasure?” 

"No, I don’t,” hastily relenting, "and I’m horrid. 
I was thinking that you never took me out.” 

"I shall be only too honoured. You have but to 
name your own time. I thought you hated a two- 
wheeled trap, or I’d have offered long ago.” 

"It’s quite true, I do loathe high dog carts and 
pulling trotters. I’ve no courage now, and that 
Sally of yours goes like an express train. Ten years 
ago, how I should have loved it! What a curse it 
is to have nerves !” 

"I expect you want a change to the hills. Angel 
tells me you are not going to stir this hot weather. 
Mind you, Lena, it is a mistake.” 

"Oh, I know ; but Richard declares that he cannot 
possibly afford two establishments, and he must stay 
down. Angel looks bleached. Three hot seasons 
are enough to take the colour out of anyone, and 
are trying to a child. That is what makes her so 
cross, and dainty, and discontented.” 

"You ought to go away, Lena, if only for two 
months. You look run down yourself.” 

"Yes, and I feel run down, too. Here she paused, 
took up her work for a moment, and put in two or 
three stitches. "I sometimes wonder ” she be- 

gan, and said no more. 

“What do you sometimes wonder?” he inquired. 

"It is only when I lie awake at night, listening 
to the jackals — they always make me feel so des- 


ANGEL 


24 

perately depressed, and when I am quite in the blues 
I cannot help asking myself what would become of 
Angel if — anything happened to me?” 

“What a dismal idea, an odious little blue devil !” 
he exclaimed. “You should light a lamp and read 
some cheery novel; that would soon chase him 
away.” 

“And I might fall asleep, and set the bungalow 
on fire.” 

“Look here, Lena,” he resumed, hitching his chair 
a little closer, “you know Lm pretty well off; no 
debts, no wife.” 

“Fancy naming them in the same breath!” she 
protested with a laugh. 

“Well, sometimes one brings the other,” and he 
nodded his head gaily; then, lowering his voice, he 
continued, “I daresay it is hard for Wilkinson to 
make both ends meet, with heavy insurances, and all 
that sort of thing” — Wilkinson was scrupulously 
saving and investing half of his pay — “so — 

so ” Then, with a sudden rush, “If you’ll just 

run up to the hills for three months, and take Angel 
and the boys — I’ll make it all right — you know I’m 
your cousin.” 

“Yes,” she assented rather bitterly, “and the only 
Gascoigne who ever deigned to take the smallest 
notice of me; but it can’t be done, Phil. You are a 
dear good fellow to suggest it, and if the matter lay 
with me I’d accept it like a shot and be off to-mor- 
row; but Richard would not hear of it.” 

“Well, then, let me send Angel, with an ayah, 
to some good boarding-house where the lady will 
look after her. Surely, he would make no objec- 


AN EARLY VISIT 


25 

tion to that. She would be out of his sight for 
months.” 

“Perhaps not; but he has such odd ideas, and 
although he does not want her here, I doubt if he 
would allow her to go elsewhere. There,” starting 
up, ‘T hear him now. He is coming.” 

“At any rate, you might sound him, Lena, and I’ll 
call in for Angel at half-past five.” 

“Hullo, Gascoigne — you here?” and a stout, 
breathless little man, with prodigious moustache and 
a shining round face, came puffing up the steps. “I 
tell you,” he panted, “this day is going to be a 
corker ! — my reins were mad hot, and Graham says 
there are five cases of heat apoplexy in hospital. ' 
Lena, we must have the cuscus tatties up at once.” 

“They say this season is to be something quite 
extra,” remarked Gascoigne, who had risen to his 
feet. 

“Yes, yes,” cried Colonel Wilkinson, “the usual 
bazaar talk. But,” mopping his face, “if this is the 
beginning, where shall we all be in the end of May 
— eh, Lena?” 

“In the cemetery, perhaps,” she suggested gravely. 

“Come, come, old woman — none of your ghastly 
jokes. Hullo, Beany boy; well, my Pinkums. 
Ayah,” in a sharper key, “what do you mean by let- 
ting Master Beany wear his best shoes?” 

“They are all he has got, sahib — others done fall 
to pieces,” she answered sullenly. 

“Fall to grandmother ! Let me see them. And I 
say, the children are to have plenty of ice in their 
milk to-day. I’ve ordered in two seers extra. Has 
Master Baba had his tonic? Here — you must all 


26 


ANGEL 


clear out of the verandah — it’s like a furnace. 
Away you go!” and, raising his arms as if driving 
a flock of geese, he hustled the whole family precipi- 
tately indoors, whilst Gascoigne snatched up his 
whip and fled. 


CHAPTER IV 


ANGEL IN EXCELSIS 

Punctual to the moment, Philip Gascoigne 
arrived to take his little cousin for the promised 
drive, and Angel’s eyes shone like stars when she 
descried his smart dogcart spinning up the ap- 
proach. Sally Lunn, or “Mad” Sally, a good-look- 
ing bay, stud-bred, in hard condition, enjoyed the 
reputation of. being the fastest trotter, as well as the 
most hot-tempered and eccentric animal, in the sta- 
tion; only those blessed with a cool head and no 
nerves were competent to manage her. Here she 
came, pulling double, and tossing flecks of foam 
over her bright brass harness. 

Mrs. Wilkinson felt a secret thrill of thankfulness 
that it was not about to be her lot to sit behind this 
excitable creature, the author of a lengthy chapter of 
accidents. However, Mrs. Wilkinson’s little daugh- 
ter did not share these fears. She had been dressed 
and ready for an hour, and now ran quickly down 
the steps, in a clear starched frock, her hat restored, 
her hair elaborately crimped, climbed into the cart 
with the agility of a monkey, and took her place with 
the dignity of a queen. It is true that her shapely 
little black legs dangled in a somewhat undignified 
fashion. Nevertheless she declined a footstool with 
a gesture of contempt — nor was Sally disposed to 
linger. In another moment the dogcart swung out 


28 


ANGEL 


of the gate, and was humming down the road at the 
rate of eleven miles an hour. Angel, very upright, 
with her hair streaming behind her, elation in her 
pose; Gascoigne sitting square and steady, giving 
his full attention to his impetuous trapper. 

‘Thank goodness, Philip is a first-rate whip,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Wilkinson, as she turned her eyes from 
this fleeting vision and rested them on her husband, 
“otherwise I would never trust the child with that 
animal.” 

“Bah, there’s no fear,” protested Colonel Wilkin- 
son from his long chair, taking up a paper as he 
spoke. “You may trust her with any animal; and 
Gascoigne knows what he’s about — he understands 
horses; but I’m blessed if I understand him. He 
must be hard up for company when he calls for that 
brat.” 

“She is his cousin, you see,” answered her parent, 

“and — Richard ” a pause; long pauses were a 

peculiarity of Mrs. Wilkinson’s conversation. 

“Well?” impatiently. “What?” 

“He thinks she looks so white and thin, and he 
has offered to send her up to the hills for three 
months — at his own expense. What do you say?” 

Colonel Wilkinson reflected for some seconds be- 
hind the pages of his “Pioneer.” He detested An- 
gel; an arrogant, insolent little ape, whose shrill 
treble broke into and amended his best stories, who 
never shed a tear, no matter what befell her at his 
hands, and who laughed in his face when he stormed. 
He would be rid of her — ^but he would also be re- 
nouncing his authority. Angel was his step-daugh- 
ter — Gascoigne was only her father’s cousin. Her 


ANGEL IN EXCELSIS 


29 

keep was nominal, and the station would talk. 
No— certainly no. 

“What do I say?” he repeated, emerging with 
considerable crackling from behind his screen. “I 
say no, and I call the offer confounded cheek on the 
part of Gascoigne. What is good enough for my 
own children is good enough for her. They are not 
going to budge this season.” 

“But the boys are so much younger, Richard, 
dear,” ventured his wife. 

“Well, I won’t have Gascoigne interfering with a 
member of my family, cousin or no cousin. Some 
day he will find out what a little devil she is, for all 
her angel name and angel face,” and with this de- 
pressing prophecy Colonel Wilkinson retired once 
more behind his “Pioneer.” 

Meanwhile the “little devil” was in the seventh 
heaven, as she and her Jehu bowled along the 
straight flat road, overtaking and passing every 
other vehicle — a triumph dear to Angel. 

“Look here, young ’un, where would you like me 
to drive you — you shall choose the route,” said Gas- 
coigne suddenly. 

“Right in front of the club, then past the railway 
station and through the bazaar,” was her prompt 
and unexpected answer. 

“Good Lord, what a choice ! And why ?” 

“Just that people may see me,” replied Angel, and 
she put out her hand and touched his arm, as she 
added, “See me — driving with you.” 

“No great sight; but, all the same, you shall have 
your way — you don’t often get it, do you ?” 

Angel made no reply beyond a queer little, laugh. 


ANGEL 


30 

and they sped through the cantonments, meeting the 
remnant who were left taking their dutiful airing. 
These did not fail to notice the “Wilkinson’s An> 
gel,” as she was called, seated aloft beside Captain 
Gascoigne, pride in her port, her little sharp face 
irradiated with the serene smile of absolute content. 
The two Miss Brewers, in their rickety pony car- 
riage, envied the child fully as much as she could 
have desired. Mrs. Dawson stared, bowed, and 
looked back; so did some men on their way to 
rackets. 

“Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just 
the kind of thing he would do — give up his game 
to take a kid for a spin into the country. Why, he 
was making straight for the bazaar.” The bazaar 
was narrow and thronged with ekkas, camels, bul- 
lock carts, and cattle, as well as crammed with human 
beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out 
of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There 
was Narwainjees, a large general shop which sold 
everything from Paris hats to pills and night lights. 
He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, “I 
say, Angel, I want you to come in here and choose 
yourself a hat.” 

“A hat,” she echoed. “Oh, Philip, I— I— shall be 
too happy.” 

“All right, then,” lifting her down as he spoke; 
“you can try what it feels like to be too happy. I 
can’t say I know the sensation myself.” 

As the oddly-matched couple now entered the shop 
hand in hand, the smart, soldierly young man and 
the shabby little girl, an obsequious attendant 
emerged from some dark lair. At this time of year 


ANGEL IN EXCELSIS 


31 

business was slack, and the atmosphere of the ill- 
ventilated premises was reeking with oil, turmeric, 
and newly-roasted coffee. 

'‘I want to look at some trimmed hats for this 
young lady,” explained her cavalier. 

'‘Oh, Phil,” she whispered, squeezing his hand 
tightly in her tiny grasp, “it’s the very first time I’ve 
been called a young lady.” 

“And won’t be the last, we will hope,” he an- 
swered. 

“Have some iced lemonade, sir?” said a stout man 
in a gold skull-cap and thin white muslin draperies. 

“No, thank you — but you, Angel — will you have 
some?” asked her cousin. 

“I should love it,” and she put her lips greedily to 
a brimming tumbler of her favourite beverage. Un- 
doubtedly Angel was tasting every description of 
pleasure to-day. 

“And now for the hats; here they come!” an- 
nounced her companion, as a languid European as- 
sistant appeared with two in either hand. 

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Angel, setting down the 
glass and clasping her hands in rapturous admira- 
tion. 

These hats, be it known, were the usual stock in 
trade of a native shop up country, models that no 
sane woman in England would purchase or be seen 
in ; massive satin or velvet structures, with lumps of 
faded flowers and tarnished gilt buckles, one more 
preposterous than another, all equally dusty, tum- 
bled, and expensive, and all intended for full-grown 
wearers — if such could be beguiled into buying 
them. Gascoigne took a seat and proceeded to watch 


ANGEL 


32 

his protegee’s proceedings with the keenest amuse- 
ment, and exhibited no desire to cut short her few 
blissful moments. Angel was absolutely happy, not 
had been, or was to be, but actually happy in the 
present moment — and the sight of such a condition 
is extremely rare. 

The mite in short frock treated the shopwoman 
with all the airs of a grown customer, and was even 
more difficile and critical than her own mamma. 
First she tried on one hat, then another ; and to see 
the little top-heavy figure, glass in hand, strutting 
and backing in front of a great spotty mirror, and 
contemplating herself from every point of view with 
the most anxious solemnity, was to all concerned 
a truly entertaining spectacle. Several torpid assist- 
ants had collected at a respectable distance, enjoying 
the comedy with faint grins as Angel gravely ap- 
peared, and disappeared, under various monstrosi- 
ties. For a time she was sorely divided between a 
scarlet plush tam-o’-shanter and a green straw 
with yellow flowers. Finally it was a bright blue 
satin toque with mother-of-pearl buckles which cap- 
tured her affections. She put it on, and took it off, 
then put it on again, whilst Gascoigne and the Euro- 
pean attendant watched her attentively. 

“I say, Angel, that won’t do,” he said, breaking 
the spell at last ; “no, nor any single one of the lot. 
You’d look like an owl in an ivy bush.” 

“Oh, Philip, not really,” she protested, and her 
eyes grew large with amazement. 

“No, none of them are suitable. That thing you’ve 
on weighs pounds; you’d want a man to carry it. 


ANGEL IN EXCELSIS 


33 

ril tell you what, perhaps this young lady here will 
fit you out with a nice straw hat, and trim it.” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” she assented briskly. “I believe I 
have what will answer exactly,” producing a pile 
of plain straws. “Try this on, missy.” 

But it was such a bare, uninteresting-looking arti- 
cle. Two great tears stood in Angel’s eyes. These 
she bravely winked away, and said with a gulp^ 
“Very well, Phil ; I suppose you know best.” 

“I’ll make it so smart, missy,” said the sympa- 
thetic attendant, “with big bows of fresh white rib- 
bon.” 

“And roses ? Oh, Philip, say I am to have roses ?” 
she pleaded with clasped hands, and a voice that was 
tragic. 

“Yes, roses by all means, if they are indispensable 
to your happiness.” 

“Oh, they are — and pink ones.” 

“Then we will leave the matter entirely to you,” 
said Gascoigne to the milliner, as he stood up; “a 
child’s hat, you know, not a May bush.” 

And Miss Harris, who was rarely favoured with 
such a customer, gave Mr. Gascoigne an emphatic 
promise, and her sweetest smile. As a solace from 
being parted from her beloved blue toque, her cousin 
presented Angel with a large box of chocolates, a 
bottle of perfume, a silver thimble, and a doll, and 
the little creature returned to the dogcart with her 
arms full and her face radiant. 


CHAPTER V 


THE LUCKNOW ROAD 

‘^And now for a good spin along the Lucknow 
road/^ said Gascoigne when they had extricated 
themselves from the teeming bazaar. 

Oh, Lucknow road ! How many times have you 
resounded to the steady tramp of armed men, the 
clattering of hoofs, the rumble of guns ! What bat- 
tles have been fought to guard you, what nameless 
graves of gallant fellows are scattered among the 
crops in your vicinity ! But to-night all is peace ; the 
moon rides high in the heavens, and the whole land- 
scape seems flooded in silvery white. The pace at 
which Sally travelled created a current of fresh air, 
as she sped past tombs, shrines, villages, and between 
long avenues of trees. The bare, flat plains were 
just forty miles from the foot of the Himalayas, and 
in the cold weather the scene presented an unbroken 
stretch of rich cultivation. A sea of yellow waves, 
wheat and barley, sugar-cane, feathery white cotton, 
and acres and acres of poppies. Now the crops were 
gathered, and all that remained was a barren ex- 
panse parched to a dull dusty brown. The very trees, 
with their grey trunks and leafless branches, gave 
the scene a bleak and wintry appearance, al- 
though the air was like a furnace. It was a still, 
breathless night, save for the croaking of frogs, or 
the humming of a village tom-tom, and the couple 


THE LUCKNOW ROAD 35 

in the dogcart were as silent as their surroundings, 
absorbing the swiftly changing scene without ex- 
changing a word, each being buried in their own 
reflections. Angel’s thoughts were pleasant ones; 
her busy brain was occupied with visions of future 
triumphs — not unconnected with her present posi- 
tion, and her new hat. 

Gascoigne’s inner self was far, far away across 
the sea. He was driving with a little girl through 
deep country lanes, a girl then his playfellow, later 
his divinity, now lost to him, and figuratively laid in 
a grave and wrapped in roses and lavender. On the 
tombstone the strong god Circumstance had in- 
scribed, ‘‘Here lies the love of Philip Gascoigne.” 
The man was thinking of his love, the child of her 
new hat, and the four-legged animal of her supper. 
Once or twice he had been on the point of turning, 
but a piteous little voice beside him had pleaded, 
“Oh, please, not yet; oh, just another mile, well, 
half-a-mile,” and they had passed the tenth mile- 
stone before Sally was pulled up and her head set 
once more towards Ramghur. 

“Oh, dear,” cried Angel, coming out of a dream, 
“I’m so sorry we are going back. I began to think 
I was in heaven.” 

“Upon my word, you are a funny child,” ex- 
claimed her cousin. “I don’t fancy the hot weather 
in the North-West is many people’s notion of Para- 
dise.” 

“But there are horses and chariots there. At all 
events,” she argued, “the Bible says so.” 

“Do you read the Bible much, Angel ?” 

“Yes. I love the Book of Revelations, which tells 


36 ANGEL 

all about gold and jewels and horses. I always read 
it on Sundays.’' 

“And what do you read on week-days ?” 

“I have not much time. I sew a good deal for 
mother, and there are lessons, and going out walk- 
ing with those children to the club gardens twice a 
day,” and she gave a little impatient sigh. Gas- 
coigne looked down at the small figure perched be- 
side him, with pitying eyes, and thought of her 
dreary, colourless life. 

“I’m reading a book now,” she announced com- 
placently. 

“And what is it called ?” 

“The Mysteries of Paris.” 

“The whatr 

“The Mysteries of Paris,” raising her thin voice. 
“I heard Mrs. Du Grand telling mother it was thrill- 
ing — and so wicked. She rooted it out of the old 
stock in the Library.” 

“It’s not fit for you to read.” 

“Have you read it?” she asked sharply. 

“No, and don’t want to. Does your mother allow 
you to read such stuff?” 

“Mother does not know — she would not mind.” 

“I’m certain she would — it’s a bad — I mean a 
grown-up book, and not fit for you.” 

“I’ve only read as far as two chapters — and it’s 
so stupid.” 

“Then mind you don’t read more, Angel, nor 
any grown-up books, if you would like to please me. 
Hullo, sit tight,” he added quickly, as a white bul- 
lock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting 
Sally out of her wits. She made a violent spring 


THE LUCKNOW ROAD 37 

across the road — a spring that tested every buckle 
in her harness — and nearly capsized the cart. Then 
she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap 
rocking at her heels. 

‘‘No fear, Angel; you hold on to me,” said Gas- 
coigne. 

“But I’m not afraid,” rejoined a bold, clear voice. 
“I’m never afraid when I’m with you, Philip.” 

“It’s all right,” he said presently, as Sally’s racing 
pace slackened and she gradually came back to her 
bit. “Sally is a coward; she thought she saw a 
ghost.” 

“Yes; and it was only an old bullock,” scoffed the 
child. “But, cousin Phil, there are real ghosts, you 
know.” 

“Where?” 

“Oh,” spreading out her hands, “everywhere, all 
over the world — in the station — yes, and in your 
bungalow.” 

“My poor, simple Angel! Who has been cram- 
ming you with this rot ?” 

“The servants,” she promptly replied; “and I’ve 
heard other people talking. The cook’s brother is 
your bearer, and yet, he would not go into your 
compound after dark if you gave him one hundred 
rupees.” 

“Then he is a foolish man,” pronounced Gas- 
coigne; “not that I am likely to offer him his price.” 

“They say,” resumed the child, “where you keep 
your boxes and polo sticks used to be the dining- 
room, and that servants in queer old liveries can 
still be seen there.” 


ANGEL 


38 

'Then I wish to goodness they’d clean up my 
saddles whilst they wait. And is that all ?” 

"No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not 
worn now, comes running in with a drawn sword, 
and chases a pretty lady from room to room. She 
wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. 
He kills her in the front verandah — and her screams 
are awful.” 

“Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy ! 
but you don’t mean to say you believe it ?” 

“Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There 
is another — I heard Mrs. Jones telling it to mother, 
and she said she knew it was true. Shall I go on ?” 

“Yes, if you like — it is quite an Indian night’s 
entertainment.” 

“Well,” beginning in a formal little voice, “some 
gentlemen were driving up from the station; they 
were very late, and they saw a mess house all lit up, 
and the compound packed with carriages and bul- 
lock bandies, and they said, ‘Why, it is a big ball, 
and we never heard a word about it.’ So they 
stopped on the road and looked on. They could see 
right into the room, and there were crowds of people 
dancing — but the strange thing was, there was not 
one face they knew.” 

“Well, I’m not surprised at that,” exclaimed her 
listener derisively. 

“Please don’t interrupt — they drove on after a 
while ” 

“They ought to have gone in to supper.” 

‘'Philips she expostulated. “Next morning they 
asked about the great ball in the cavalry lines, and 
people thought they were joking; there had not been 


THE LUCKNOW ROAD 39 

a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, 
and they rode down to have a look at the house. 
It had not been used for years and years, and was 
crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture ; the 
compound was all grass and weeds, and there was 
not a trace or mark of a carriage.” 

“And what did they make of that?” inquired Gas- 
coigne. 

“Oh, people just shook their heads, and said some- 
thing about an old story, and the mutiny, and that 
a great many ladies were killed in that messhouse 
one night — and the servants have heaps of tales.” 

“I don^t want to hear their tales, and I wish you 
would not listen to them,” he said sharply. 

“Why?” with a look of bewildered injury, “how 
can I help it, when they are talking all round me? 
The ayah’s sister and her niece come in, and bring 
a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip 
when mother is out, and I can’t sleep; they talk, 
ever so much, all the station gup, oh, such stories. 
Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?” she asked 
suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; 
“why are you so grave; what are you thinking 
about ?” 

“Then I will tell you, Angel ; I am thinking about 
you — it is full time you were at home.” 

“So I am at home. Here we are — the gate is 
open. Oh, what a shy!” as Sally executed a deep 
curtsey to a long black shadow. 

“I mean England,” giving Sally a flip; “would 
you not like to go there?” 

“No; for I don’t want to leave mother. Anyway, 
she cannot afford to send me to school. She owes 


ANGEL 


40 

such a lot of money; there she is on the verandah 
watching for us ; and oh ! I am so sorry this drive is 
over — thank you a million thousand times.” 

“I am afraid we are rather late,” he called out to 
Mrs. Wilkinson, ''but I’ve brought her back safe 
and sound.” 

"Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o’clock, 
and I began to be nervous.” 

"I’m sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine 
moonlight night, and Angel has been telling me 
stories.” 

"Oh, she’s good enough at that !” sneered Colonel 
Wilkinson, with terrible significance. "Now, Angel, 
go off to your bed,” he added peremptorily; "the 
ayah has kept some cold rice pudding for you — 
mind you eat it,” and he waved her out of his sight. 
Then, turning his attention to the child’s charioteer, 
and refusing to notice his wife’s anxious signals, he 
continued, "I say, Gascoigne, if you don’t mind, 
you’ll be late for mess!” 

It was all very well for Lena to suggest his stay- 
ing to share pot luck, but Lena was not the house- 
keeper, or aware that the bill of fare consisted of a 
little soup and some brain cutlets. 

"The bugle went five minutes ago,” he concluded. 
Gascoigne promptly accepted the hint (not that he 
craved for an invitation — were not Colonel Wilkin- 
son’s dinners notorious?) and with a hasty good- 
bye immediately drove away. 

Surely, this must have been one of the happiest 
days of Angel’s existence ; her mother was prepared 
to find her in raptures, when she came to see her in 
her cot that night. She was therefore astonished 


THE LUCKNOW ROAD 


4 ^ 

to discover the child in tears, sobbing softly under 
her breath — the cold rice-pudding untouched, and 
spurned. 

“Darling, what is the matter?” inquired Mrs. 
Wilkinson anxiously. “Are you sick?” 

“No,” sniffed her daughter in a lachrymose key. 

“But you have not eaten your supper,” she expos- 
tulated; “are you sure you are quite well, dearie?” 

I am — quite — well. 

“Then,” now stirred to indignation, “do you mean 
to tell me, that after your delightful drive, and all 
your beautiful presents, you greedy, insatiable child, 
you are crying yourself to sleep ?” 

A heartrending sob was the sole reply to this ques- 
tion. 

Mrs. Wilkinson’s thoughts flew to her spouse; he 
had been particularly impatient of Angel lately. She 
bent over the cot, and whispered into the ear of the 
little head buried in its pillow : 

“Tell me, darling, what has happened? What is 
the trouble — who ?” 

And a muffled voice moaned like some wounded 
animal : 

“Phil — cousin Phil — he — he ” a burst of sobs 

interrupted her. 

“He what ?” impatiently. 

“Oh, mummy, he never said good-bye to me.” 


CHAPTER VI 


LATE EOR MESS 

The bungalow occupied by Captain Gascoigne 
and his friend was one of the largest in Ramghur. 
Sixty years previously, it had been the residence of 
the general commanding the district, and now it was 
let to a couple of bachelors, at the miserable rental of 
thirty rupees a month, for it happened to be deplora- 
bly out of repair, inconveniently out of the way, 
and enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. This 
unfortunate habitation stood in a spacious com- 
pound, whose limits were absorbed in the surround- 
ing terra-cotta coloured plain, covered with yawning 
fissures, and tufts of bleached grass. A few mango 
trees, guava trees, and a dry well, indicated the re- 
mains of a once celebrated garden, whilst under the 
tamarinds were three or four weather-worn tombs, 
the resting-place of Mahomedan warriors, who had 
been buried on the battle-field long before the days 
of the English Raj. 

An imposing range of servants’ quarters (at pres- 
ent crowded, as the retinue harboured all their rela- 
tions, as well as lodgers) and a long line of stables 
testified to the former importance of this tumble- 
down abode, whose big reception-rooms, once the 
heart of social life, were now filled with boxes, empty 
packing-cases, saddlery, and polo sticks, and were 
the resort of white ants, roof cats, and scorpions. 


LATE FOR MESS 


43 

The present tenants had naturally selected the most 
weather-tight quarters, and these were in opposite 
ends of the venerable residence. As Gascoigne came 
whirling through the entrance gate, he was way- 
laid by three dogs, a fox-terrier, an Irish terrier, and 
a nondescript hound, and it was immediately evident 
that he belonged to them, from their yelps of hearty 
welcome, and the manner in which all three scuttled 
up the drive in the wake of Sally Lunn. 

As the cart stopped, and the syce sprang down, 
Shafto appeared in the verandah. He wore the 
usual hot-weather mess dress, spotless white linen, 
and a coloured silk cummerband, and looked strik- 
ingly handsome as he stood bareheaded in the moon- 
light, gravely contemplating his comrade. 

“Upon my soul, Phil, I began to think the brute 
had smashed you up at last ! I’ve been sitting here 
listening hard for twenty minutes, precisely as if I 
were your anxious grandmother. I know Sally’s trot 
half a mile away. What kept you ?” 

“Down dogs, down,” cried their master, as he 
descended. “I had no notion it was so late, and for 
a drive, this is the best time of the whole day.” 

“Whole night you mean,” corrected Shafto; “it’s 
half-past eight — where have you been ? Sally looks 
as if she had had enough for once.” 

“She’s had about twenty-two miles,” admitted her 
owner, now taking off his cap and subsiding into one 
of the two long chairs which furnished the verandah. 
“The Lucknow road is like a billiard table, and we 
made our own wind.” 

“We?” ejaculated his listener. 

“Yes, I took that child Angel from next door; it 


ANGEL 


44 

was a rare treat for the poor little beggar, and she 
coaxed me to go on mile after mile.” 

“Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the 
angel next door I don’t mind,” said Shafto, tossing 
away the stump of a cigarette; “an angel in the 
house, I bar. This establishment is already the home 
of rest for lost dogs” — pointing to the trio — “ill- 
used ekka ponies, and a lame bullock. Don’t, for 
God’s sake, bring in a child.” 

“You need not alarm yourself,” said his friend 
composedly. “I should not know what to do with 
her. The animals, at least, are grown up.” 

“And so is Angel — as old-fashioned as they make 
’em. By the way, I forgot to ask you what she 
wanted yesterday?” 

“Nothing,” replied Gascoigne, stretching out his 
arms. “I say — Sally can pull — only to tell me that 
she was rather down on her luck.” 

“Not much luck to be down on, eh?” sneered his 
listener. “What with a smart mamma, a saving step- 
papa, and a squad of greedy little Wilkinsons, she 
must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her 
father’s people don’t do something.” 

“Here you are,” cried Gascoigne. “I am her 
father’s cousin.” 

“Well, I won’t permit you to interfere, or take her 
in; by Jove, no,” said Shafto, springing to his feet. 
“Charity does not begin at this home. They say 
that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is a 
cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat.” 

“Poor mite! Can’t ‘they’ let even a child alone? 
They must be short of subjects.” 

“You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt 


LATE FOR MESS 


45 

times are bad — so many of their ‘cases’ are in the 
hills. Personally, I don’t care for little girls with 
wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate.” 

“I know you don’t,” assented the other promptly. 
‘Tow prefer well-grown young women with seduc- 
tive black orbs and a craving for sympathy.” 

“Bosh ! There’s the mess bugle. You take half- 
an-hour to tub and change ; you’ll be late for dinner.” 

“Oh, I’ll get something when I go over.” 

“Here,” said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring 
up his pony. Then, turning to his comrade, “You 
are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet soft as 
putty in some ways.” 

“Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto,” he protested 
with a laugh. 

“Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape — Gascoigne. 
Duty to do — Gascoigne. For the sick and afflicted — 
Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a child — Gas- 
coigne.” Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stir- 
rup and mounted^ and as he wheeled about he gave 
a view hulloa, shouted “Vive Gascoigne!” and gal- 
loped down the avenue ventre a terre. For a moment 
Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of 
dust the pony’s hoofs had raised behind him, and 
then the three animals gathered round to have a 
word or two with their master. 

Each of these waifs had a history of his own. 
Train, the fox-terrier, was found in the railway sta- 
tion, a lost, distracted dog, evidently a stranger in a 
strange land, for he did not understand a word of 
Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blan- 
dishments of the Telegraph Baboo. He was middle- 
aged, English, and a gentleman. What was his past ? 


46 ANGEL 

Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had 
been left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly 
ordered up country, and for weeks he had haunted 
their lines, heart-broken and starving; even now he 
constantly called at his old quarters, to see if they 
had come back ? 

Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated con- 
dition, by the two others, and was believed to have 
been the property of a man who had died of cholera 
the previous rains. These three casuals were now 
beyond the reach of want, and were well looked 
after. They employed a dog boy, whose duty it was 
to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were 
fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a 
walk at the end of a chain, merely to be tied up, 
whilst their attendant gambolled behind a wall with 
various other urchins. When not enjoying a scam- 
per with their master they took themselves out with 
great decorum, and it was a funny sight to meet the 
three strolling leisurely along, precisely like their su- 
periors, or cantering across the maidan almost 
abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were iden- 
tical, and it was a truly brave dog who dared to raise 
his bristles at the trio. They had their various indi- 
vidual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that it 
was a pity to see a dog of Gunner’s age and size so 
passionately addicted to chasing sparrows. 

Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in 
front of the old bungalow, silently enjoying one an- 
other’s society, till a neighbouring gurra, striking 
nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress and 
dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, 
and only for the susceptibilities of his bearer, — who 


LATE FOR MESS 


47 

was an abject slave to convention, and would have 
considered his conduct erratic and peculiar, — he 
would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah 
with his three dumb friends. Gascoigne’s drive with 
Angel had resulted in a paradox — it had effectively 
taken away his appetite, and supplied him with food 
for reflection. Poor little neglected ne’er-do-well! 
What was to be her fate ? 


CHAPTER VII 


MRS. Dawson’s dresses 

The hot weather was in full possession of Ram- 
ghur, and, as a natural consequence, the station be- 
came deserted. Various bragging individuals, who 
had announced their determination to “face it this 
year,” had at the first boom of its artillery — that 
fierce midday blast, — closed their bungalows, dis- 
tributed their pets and flowers, lent their cows, and 
carriages, among their friends, and departed precipi- 
tately to cooler regions. It was a sickly season ; al- 
ready the bazaar prediction had been more than jus- 
tified. Only those whom duty or poverty chained to 
the cantonment were to be found at their posts, and 
these were to be seen, very late or very early, driv- 
ing about the dusty roads, with haggard white faces. 

It is a well-established fact, that one hot weather 
endured in company draws people more nearly to- 
gether than a dozen cold seasons. There is a gen- 
eral relaxing of stiffness, a putting off of armour, a 
reliance on one another, and a liberal exchange of 
sympathy — and secrets ; — undoubtedly a fellow feel- 
ing makes one wondrous kind. For example, if a 
cynic happened to remark what friends two sharply 
contrasting ladies had become, “Oh, they spent a hot 
weather together in Kalipore,” would be accepted as 
an unanswerable reply. Moreover, it is undisputed, 
that some of the best matrimonial prizes have been 
snatched out of the heat of the plains, by maidens 


MRS. DAWSON’S DRESSES 49 

who clung to their parents, and braved the conse- 
quences. Thus, they occasionally made the ac- 
quaintance of some bored and solitary bachelor, who, 
failing to obtain leave, presently consoled himself 
with a wife. 

The band of the Native Cavalry, — Mr. Shafto’s 
Regiment, — played thrice a week in the club gar- 
dens, and then the pale remnant of Europeans (and 
many brilliant Eurasians) assembled to what the na- 
tives term ‘‘eat the air’’ and exchange the contents of 
letters from the hills, and the delinquencies of their 
domestics. 

Everywhere beyond the gardens the atmosphere 
was that of a brickkiln. Within, among the trees, 
shrubs, and glistening foliage plants, the nostrils 
were greeted by the smell of hot earth, and a recently 
watered green-house, — that is an aroma peculiar to 
India. In the early morning, immediately after sun- 
rise, the club was at its best; thronged with mem- 
bers who came to study the telegrams, glance at the 
papers, and pick up any stray crumbs of local news. 
It was thus that the youngest Miss Brewer first al- 
lured Mr. Pontefract into conversation on the sub- 
ject of “a fire in the Bazaar.’' Hitherto he had 
thought of her (if he ever did think of her) as a 
plain, heavy young woman, who could neither ride 
nor dance, but just lob over the net at tennis. Now 
he discovered, thanks to the hot weather, that she 
was a surprisingly taking girl, with a good deal in 
her, including brains. She talked well (and shared 
his views on the subject of the club soda-water, and 
Sunday tennis) ; moreover, she was a devout list- 
ener. 


ANGEL 


50 

Between listening and talking, the moments flew ; 
at last, the increasing heat, and the clamour of the 
coppersmith bird, awakened the pair to the fact that 
it was seven o’clock, and much too late an hour to 
be abroad; and then, as Miss Brewer’s pony carriage 
boasted a hood, she offered a seat to her new ac- 
quaintance, and enjoyed the pleasure and triumph of 
conveying the rising civilian to his own door. She 
carried him off in every sense of the word, in fact — 
she was a particularly ‘‘taking” girl. This drive 
was the prelude to greater events — to meetings at 
dawn, to walks after dark, to little dinners, little 
presents, — ^and an engagement. Yes, it was quite 
true, Tilly Brewer, the unprepossessing, the dowdy, 
was about to marry the best parti in Ramghur ; and 
when the young ladies in the hills heard the tidings, 
they each and all registered a mental vow to remain 
below next season. It is so easy to make such resolu- 
tions when you are in a perfect climate. 

The talk of the engagement created an agreeable 
break in the long monotonous days, and mere ac- 
quaintances exhibited quite an affectionate interest 
in Tilly’s trousseau, presents, and prospects. 

However, early in May, another topic cropped up 
which entirely eclipsed the marriage preparations, 
and afforded food for incessant discussion until the 
end of the rains; in fact, the story of “Mrs. Daw- 
son’s dresses” created such an uproar and commo- 
tion, that it got into some of the local papers, and 
every one of the letters home. 

Mrs. Dawson, the Judge’s wife, was a prim, spare 
woman of a certain age — and, it was said, uncertain 
temper. She had a cool, stiff manner, and an air of 


MRS. DAWSON’S DRESSES 51 

critical aloofness that seriously discounted her popu- 
larity. This lady was Mrs. Wilkinson’s most serious 
rival in the matter of dress, and if her taste was less 
artistic, and her ideas lacked courage, she employed 
a court milliner, and owned a long purse. It must 
be admitted that her toilettes were both varied and 
expensive. ‘‘Stiff and old-maidish,” was Mrs. Wil- 
kinson’s verdict — for she never soared to that lady’s 
daring transformations, and condemned her daz- 
zling triumphs as “theatrical and loud.” Twice a 
year Mrs. Dawson received a large box or two from 
home, containing a fashionable outfit for the ap- 
proaching season, and the envious pangs the arrival 
of these treasures occasioned Mrs. Wilkinson, no 
one — no, not even her closest friend — had ever 
guessed. 

A consignment of costumes had recently arrived 
per ss. Arcadia, and Mrs. Dawson invited all her 
neighbours to inspect them. The dresses were to be 
on view for two succeeding afternoons, but their 
owner omitted to despatch a little note to Mrs. Wil- 
kinson. She would see all the toilettes later on in 
public, and, meanwhile, as she might steal some of 
the novel ideas, and was quite capable of carrying 
away a Paris pattern “in her eye,” the poor lady was 
cruelly excluded. Late one evening Mrs. Rattray 
dropped in on Mrs. Wilkinson, en route from the 
exhibition. She was a lively, fair woman, with an 
immense stock of superfluous enthusiasm. As soon 
as she had found a seat, and unfurled her fan, she 
began, 

“Well, my dear, I’ve never seen such frocks as she 
has got this tim.e.” 


ANGEL 


52 

“No/’ cried her hostess eagerly; “you have been 
to the show — do tell me all about them. I am dying 
to know what the dresses are like. French, of course 
— she said so.” 

“Yes,” drawing a long breath. “There is a grey 
crepe de chine and silver, like the moon in a mist, 
with very long, tight sleeves, and a sort of double 
skirt — it’s a dream. There is a lemon satin with 
Egyptian embroidery and a long train, a black silk 
canvas with lace sleeves, piece lace — you could easily 
copy that; and there is a lovely mauve tea-gown, 
with a yoke of point d’Alengon, and knots of black 
velvet with long ends, to which I lost my heart — it’s 
quite my style — but she never lends a pattern, you 
know.” 

“Yes,” agreed her listener, “we all know that.” 

“Then there are hats, and toques, and feathers, 
and silk petticoats. I never saw so many pretty 
things all at once. I think she got some smart cousin 
to choose them, for they are not in the same style as 
her usual dresses — really, you won’t know her.” 

Further details, descriptions, and even sketches, 
prolonged the interview for more than an hour. 
Meanwhile Angel sat growing in a corner, totally 
unnoticed, but absorbing every word of the conver- 
sation with a curious expression on her little elfish 
face. 

“I must say, it is most marked, her not inviting 
you,” said Mrs. Rattray, as she rose at last. “Sev- 
eral people noticed it, and Mrs. Gordon was wonder- 
ing why you had not come ; ‘the show was so much 
in your line.’ Of course, T did not tell her why you 
stayed away; at any rate, you will see one of the 


MRS. DAWSON’S DRESSES 53 

frocks on Sunday, a white Chinese silk, much too 
young for Mrs. Dawson; I’m sure she is long past 
forty. Well, good-bye, dear, I knew you’d be dying 
to hear all about the exhibition, so I just ran in to 
tell you.” And then Mrs. Rattray bustled out to her 
victoria, leaving her stricken hostess to digest her 
news as best she might. Alas ! what were two or 
three pretty muslins, or even a new lilac foulard, 
against Mrs. Dawson’s battle array, gowns direct 
from Doucet and Rouff? Oh, money must tell in 
the end ! and, burying her face among her sofa cush- 
ions, — for she was weak and run down, — Mrs. Wil- 
kinson wept long and bitterly, she who but five min- 
utes ago had been all animation and smiles. 

Two mornings later, Mrs. Rattray encountered 
Mrs. Dawson in the club library. Greatly to her sur- 
prise, the latter accosted her at once; for, as a rule, 
she merely bestowed a cool nod. 

“Have you heard about my dresses?” she began 
excitedly. 

“But you forget that I have inspected them,” said 
the other; “I never saw anything half so exquisite, 
or so 

“Exquisite no longer!” broke in Mrs. Dawson 
with a catch in her voice; “what do you think? I 
had some friends to my little show yesterday, all the 
gowns laid out in my bedroom, just as when you 
came, — and then we went into the drawing-room to 
tea. After they had left, I sent for the ayah, intend- 
ing to help her to fold the things, and put them in 
tissue paper.” Here she paused for breath, and 
seemed curiously agitated. 

“Why, yes, of course,” assented Mrs. Rattray. 


ANGEL 


54 

She stood with her hands on the back of a chair, fac- 
ing the narrator, and wondering at her emotion. It 
was something novel to see Mrs. Dawson, of all 
people, thus mentally dishevelled. 

“When I went into my room with a light,” she 
resumed, “I found that all my beautiful things had 
been cut to pieces — into little — little bits !” 

“What !” cried Mrs. Rattray, raising her voice till 
it was almost a scream. 

“Yes, every one of them, and done most systemati- 
cally — nothing escaped, not even my poor feather 
fan, nor a hat, or a blouse. The ayah kept crying, 
‘Look, look, look,’ till I was sick of looking. Sleeves 
were hacked out of dresses, great pieces slashed out 
of the bodices, skirts cut right across, in all direc- 
tions ; even the artificial flowers were torn to pieces, 
and the fingers snipped off my evening gloves.” She 
paused, and there was a dead silence, for Mrs. Rat- 
tray could find no words adequate to the occasion. 
She simply stared, with her topee pushed back, from 
her forehead, and her lips wide apart. 

“And — the grey crepe she starrunered out at 
last. 

“A rag now. The lemon satin only fit for patch- 
work. There is not even enough left to make a sofa 
cushion. It was all done in about half-an-hour — 
and with a huge pair of dirzee’s scissors.” 

“But who did it?” cried her listener, breathlessly. 
“Have you no suspicions?” 

“No, that is the strange part of it ; not a soul was 
seen or heard about the premises. All the doors in 
the verandah were wide open, the chokedar was on 
duty, and he saw no one.” 


MRS. DAWSON^S DRESSES 55 

'Then what does the ayah say?” inquired Mrs. 
Rattray judicially. 

"Oh, she vows it was an evil spirit, and if she had 
not been idling in her go-down, but had come in di- 
rectly the visitors had left, this frightful affair would 
not have happened.” Here Mrs. Dawson’s voice be- 
came husky; however, she soon recovered her self- 
possession, and continued, "Nothing was taken — no, 
not even an inch of ribbon — everything is there. So 
it was no thief. My husband will have it that it was 
Captain Moore’s monkey.” 

Mrs. Rattray drew a long breath. At last she 
inquired, with studied deliberation : 

"And what is your own opinion ?” 

"I believe it was the work of some one who knew 
more about clothes than a dumb animal,” responded 
the victim of the outrage; "and yet, it is like a 
monkey’s trick, so unnecessary, and so mischievous.” 

"So wicked, I call it,” cried Mrs. Rattray. "I 
must say you are bearing it marvellously well. It is 
more than I could do. I have no fortitude.” 

"What is the good of worrying? The thing is 
done ; no amount of worrying will restore my pretty 
frocks, and I cannot afford to replace them for some 
time; that lemon satin cost forty guineas, and I’d be 
ashamed to tell you what I paid for the lilac tea- 
gown.” 

"You have no clue?” reiterated Mrs. Rattray. 

"Unfortunately, I have not even that small con- 
solation. Monkey or demon, it left no trace. Well 
now, I must be going — ^the sun is getting so strong I 
have a dreadful headache as it is.” 


ANGEL 


56 

And Mrs. Dawson went sadly down the steps, 
crawled into her carriage, and was driven away. 

But Mrs. Rattray lingered yet awhile, despite the 
temperature, in order to discuss the tragedy with 
Mrs. Jones. Ere they separated, she said, ^‘How 
pleased Mrs. Wilkinson will be ! She will have it all 
her own way now.’' 

“Yes,” assented her companion, “she lives to 
dress, and dresses to live — it is only her clothes that 
hold her to earth. She is a mere shadow. Don’t 
you think she looks frightfully ill, and that it is dis- 
graceful that Colonel Wilkinson has kept her and the 
children down for three hot weathers ? I declare it is 
next door to murder, and if she dies he ought to be 
hanged.” 

“She wants a change badly,” admitted Mrs. Rat- 
tray, “but this news will act as a restorer, equal to 
two months’ hill air.” 

“Colonel Wilkinson is a shameless screw,” re- 
sumed the other ; “everyone knows that he puts away 
half his pay monthly, that he never subscribes to 
anything — ‘poverty and a large family’ his cry — and 
that poor Mrs. Wilkinson finds it almost impossible 
to get him to give her a twenty-rupee dress.” 

“I think Mrs. Dawson might have asked her to her 
show ; leaving one out is always so pointed.” 

“But it was intended to be pointed. Mrs. Dawson 
was so afraid of having her gowns copied,” pleaded 
her friend. 

“Not much to copy now, is there?” retorted Mrs. 
Rattray; “and is it not strange that they have no 
suspicions, and no clue ?” 

“No, neither the one nor the other,” rejoined Mrs. 


MRS. DAWSON’S DRESSES 57 

Jones, shaking her head solemnly. But Mrs. Jones 
was mistaken ; there was a clue had Mrs. Wilkinson’s 
ayah suffered it to pass from her hands. 

For one whole morning the dirzee’s scissors were 
nowhere to be found, and a dirzee, minus his scis- 
sors, is as a dragon without his horse. 

Kadir Bux called upon all his gods to witness that 
he had left them in his basket the previous day. 
Who, then, had taken them? At last, after much 
loud talk, and an exhaustive search, the scissors were 
discovered under a fashion book in the drawing- 
room, and, behold! there was a tiny scrap of lemon 
satin stuck fast between the blades. 

Then the ayah, who had unearthed them, looked 
Angel straight in the eyes, and cried, ‘‘O child of the 
devil I” 

But she put the tell-tale scrap into the cook-house 
fire, — and held her tongue. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE PICNIC 

The ruthless destruction of Mrs. Dawson’s 
dresses supplied a subject for conversation, not 
merely in the station, but also in the “Burra Ba- 
zaar,” where the most private concerns of the sahibs, 
and mem-sahibs, are openly debated and discussed. 

Speculation was active, but neither the station nor 
the bazaar could hazard the vaguest conjecture, or 
trace even the ghost of a clue. 

The devil theory was dismissed with the contempt 
which it deserved ; the monkey suggestion was 
equally scorned, since the defamed ape was dead, 
having departed this life two days previous to the 
outrage, and thereby established an unimpeachable 
alibi. If not the monkey, who then? And echo cried. 
Who? all over the arid, torpid cantonment. There 
was no reply, and the destruction of Mrs. Dawson’s 
Europe frocks, like one of the historical crimes that 
have baffled humanity, remains undiscovered until 
the present day. 

The next sensation was a moonlight picnic, given 
by the bachelors of Ramghur; the rendezvous was 
the Chinglepat road five miles out, on a low mound 
between the highway and the river. On the occa- 
sion the lady moon appeared unusually large and 
brilliant, as if aware that she was responsible for the 
feast; the night was still and breathless, but the hock 


THE PICNIC 


59 

was still iced. Like most bachelor entertainments, 
the picnic was a success ; around and across the cloth 
flew corks, crackers, jokes, and chaff ; the poor hot- 
weather folk were eating, drinking, and making 
merry just as if the thermometer did not stand at 
98, and the merriest and most animated member of 
the company was Mrs. Wilkinson. She wore a 
charming white toilette, in which she totally eclipsed 
her rival, and was not unconscious of the fact; but 
she was also aware at the back of all her smiles that 
she herself was present entirely without her doctor’s 
knowledge, and felt like an escaped prisoner, who 
was bound to be captured some day. But then she 
wanted so much to wear her new dress. It was mod- 
elled from Mrs. Rattray’s vivid description of one 
of Mrs. Dawson’s celebrated costumes, and was so 
exceedingly novel and becoming that she felt it no 
more or less than her duty to exhibit this ghost of a 
Paris toilette to her many admirers. To Mrs. Daw- 
son it was indeed a phantom frock. 

All the world knew that Mrs. Wilkinson was 
amazingly clever, but how could she reproduce a 
garment which she had never seen? Here was yet 
another mystery. Angela, who by all domestic laws 
should have been in bed and asleep, had been per- 
mitted to join the company as Mr. Gascoigne’s 
guest, and was supremely happy. She wore her new 
hat, lavishly trimmed with roses, and her best and 
simplest manners. Her host had brought her in his 
cart ; indeed, he now drove her out daily, as he be- 
lieved that it did the wan little creature good to get 
fresh air, such as it was, and it afforded one means 
of removing her from her stepfather’s orbit. 


6o 


ANGEL 


During these drives her cousin occasionally en- 
deavoured in an awkward, clumsy fashion to im- 
prove the young mind, which was at present ^‘wax 
to receive, and marble to retain;” his teaching was 
more adapted to a boy than a girl. His lessons — 
a mere sentence — ^brief, but pithy, showed her his 
abhorrence of lying, cowardice, and all mean actions. 
(Poor Angel listened with a tingling face, for she 
lived in an atmosphere of falsehood, and was con- 
scious of certain small acts that were not creditable, 
chiefly connected with jam, hair ribbons, and beads; 
but in her heart Angel knew that she was no cow- 
ard. ) These seeds, casually cast by the wayside, and 
as casually received, were planted, and subsequently 
bore fruit, in the child’s somewhat rocky little heart. 

^ Tjc ^ ^ 

To return to the moonlight picnic. Colonel Wil- 
kinson was present in a grey dirzee-made flan- 
nel suit rather tight for his rounded proportions ; his 
moustache was waxed to exaggeration; he wore a 
new pink washing tie, and he made himself conspic- 
uous in ushering guests to their places, arranging 
the viands, concocting the salad, and distributing 
the iced hock — for he was always exceedingly hos- 
pitable in other people’s houses. At present the com- 
pany were assembled under the vault of heaven, but 
the stout little officer presided at the end of the table- 
cloth, with his fat legs crossed Buddha-wise, carved 
the cold Guinea fowl and ham, and pressed delicacies 
on his neighbours so assiduously, that a casual ar- 
rival would have supposed that in him he beheld the 
host. No one could be more genial or convivial at 


THE PICNIC 6 1 

his neighbour’s board than Richard Wilkinson, 
Lieutenant-Colonel. 

Angel shared a rug with her mother, and now and 
then stole her hand into hers and squeezed it gently, 
sure token of her absolute content; the pair were 
seated exactly opposite to Mrs. Dawson, who looked 
depressed and commonplace in an old-fashioned 
brown tussore garment. The child contemplated her 
gravely, with a mysteriously complacent expression 
in her large eyes ; her stare exasperated the lady to 
such a pitch that more than once she was on the point 
of addressing her; the hot weather has a knack 
of warping people’s tempers and reducing their 
nerves to fiddle-strings, and the combination of An- 
gel’s curious gaze and her mother’s ‘‘model gown” 
was almost too much for Mrs. Dawson’s equanimity. 

After dinner there were songs and games, and 
some wandered away in twos and threes down to 
the river. This was a tributary of Mother Gunga, 
a holy river, now much shrunken ; its waters moved 
along with a deliberate solemnity befitting a sacred 
stream. The farther bank was clothed with tall 
reeds, and was the well-known haunt of alligators. 
Mrs. Wilkinson and Mr. Shafto were looking for 
one in company, and as they gazed up and down the 
banks more than one 'grey log of wood had misled 
them. Had Mrs. Wilkinson’s doctor been of the 
party, he would have assured her that in those thin 
shoes and transparent dress, as she stood breathing 
malaria on the brink of the sluggish stream, she was 
boldly courting death. 

“There are generally three or four big fellows at 
the bend,” said Shafto. “I’ve seen them when I 


62 ANGEL 

come to that jheel to shoot snipe and he stooped 
to pick up a stone. 

“Oh, Mr. Shafto,’' gasped an agonised voice, “did 
you see it?’’ 

“The alligator?” flinging a stone as bespoke. 
“Yes; there he goes. Mark over. Watch him scut- 
tling into the river.” 

“No, no, no,” stammered Mrs. Wilkinson. “The 
face — the face of a woman — floating past. It was 
just under the water.” 

“Why, I declare, you are quite upset!” exclaimed 
her companion. “I’m most frightfully sorry you’ve 
seen — anything. Of course, you know that the na- 
tives bring all their dead to the river?” 

“Yes, yes,” she assented, with a shiver. “I’ve not 
lived in Ramghur for four years for nothing ; but it 
gave me a shock. It looked like the face of — a white 
woman.” 

“That was simply the effect of the moonlight,” he 
responded. “Come along; the river is making you 
morbid, and it’s not a sound thing to loiter near 
it after sundown — you know they say it’s full of 
malaria. Let me turn your thoughts inland. Now, 
there is something worth looking at,” and he pointed 
to the northern horizon, on which glimmered the 
long line of snows. 

“Ah, yes,” she ejaculated. “How I love the Hima- 
layas ! my happiest days have been spent there, and 
my saddest. I wonder if I shall ever see them nearer 
than I do now?” and she sighed profoundly. 

“Why, of course you will,” rejoined Shafto 
promptly. “We shall all be there next season, please 
goodness, and have a ripping time ; and, I say, Mrs. 


THE PICNIC 63 

Wilkinson, at our first ball up there let me here and 
now engage you for the first waltz/' 

“Very well," she agreed, with a forced laugh; “it's 
rather a long way ahead, is it not ?" 

“Nothing like taking time by the forelock — a year 
soon runs round. Here comes the Colonel," as the 
little squat figure bore down on them. 

“I say, you good people," he bawled, “what about 
refreshments ? Does anyone want some iced coffee ? 
Lena, I can recommend the brew of iced milk 
punch." 

His wife waved a negative, and then exclaimed, 
“Why, I see they are beginning to go ; the Gordons 
and the Rattrays are off." 

“What a shame!" protested her host. Yes, two 
carriages had just driven away — people who are 
obliged to rise at four o’clock cannot afford to keep 
late hours, and by half-past ten the scene of recent 
revelry was utterly deserted. A family of jackals 
supped right royally on the remains of the cold 
viands, and an inquisitive alligator gulped down an 
empty soda-water bottle. 

jjc 5|c :<£ * * 

Angel, who was half-asleep, accompanied her 
mother in the victoria, and Colonel Wilkinson ac- 
cepted a seat in Mr. Gascoigne's dogcart. He was 
by no means as stout-hearted as his figure would 
suggest, but held on convulsively with one hand 
as they dashed up the bridge, and halted in the mid- 
dle of a sentence which he did not conclude until they 
were a quarter of a mile away on the other side. 

He had been discoursing of his own health, and 


64 ANGEL 

then of his wife’s health, and imparting his fears to 
his Jehu. 

“Lena was so delicate now, and so subject to 
fever,” he declared. “She has a weak heart, too, and 
must go to the hills next season; in fact, they all 
wanted a change.” 

“Indeed they do,” assented Gascoigne, with con- 
siderable warmth, “especially Angela. She is too 
old to be in India.” 

“Then I wish I saw my way to sending her out of 
it,” rejoined her stepfather, “and the chance of never 
seeing her again.” 

To this aspiration Gascoigne made no reply. 

“I suppose you think I’m a brute, now, don’t 
you?” inquired his companion. 

“Since you will have it, I think you are a step- 
father — that’s all.” 

“But like a fellow in a story-book, eh? Come, 
now. Well, I’m a*n honest, plain man” — the latter 
fact was sufficiently manifest — “and I’ll tell you the 
truth. I could have liked the child — not the same 
way as my own, of course — but still well enough; 
and the only girl too. But I cannot stand her; she 
L a double-faced, dangerous imp and extraordi- 
narily daring. When you think she is quiet and on 
her good behaviour she is certain to be hatching 
something awful; she has a talent for bringing off 
the most unexpected things. Ah, you laugh, but I 
warn you, Gascoigne ” 

Here he paused, for the sensitive mare had taken 
fright at a hideous hog, who, with his great bristles 
all erect, went grunting across the road, and broke 
into a wild gallop. 


THE PICNIC 


65 

‘‘Now, I say, young fellow,” he shouted in ag- 
onised alarm, “no foolery — no larking — don’t let 
her get away, for God’s sake! Remember, I’ve a 
family depending on me,” and as he spoke he 
clutched Gascoigne’s arm with the grip of the 
drowning. 

“Oh, you’ll be all right,” answered the driver, an- 
grily shaking off the grasp; “there’s no fear.” He 
was disgusted with his guest, for whose cowardice 
and meanness he had the most supreme contempt. 
He did not permit Sally to “get away,” but he suf- 
fered her to go at a pace that brought his compan- 
ion’s heart into his mouth, and, as a natural result, 
the remainder of the drive was silence. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE BEQUEST 

Although the temperature was that of a bake- 
house, and not a breath of air stirred the drowsy 
bamboos, or the long seed-pods of the bare acacias ; 
yet, as Mrs. Wilkinson was driven homewards, her 
teeth chattered, and her hands were as cold as ice — 
premonitory symptoms of a severe attack of fever. 
Bitterly she now blamed herself for her folly in 
lingering by the riverside, and she recalled what the 
river’s bosom carried with a gasping shudder. Was 
it a warning to her ? No, no ; she was but nine-and- 
twenty — her life was not yet half spent. She drew 
the sleeping child into her arms, and oh, how warm 
the little creature felt, in her own deathly cold em- 
brace ! 

***** 5|e 

In a day or two it became widely known that Mrs. 
Wilkinson was dangerously ill — hers was no mere 
ordinary local fever, but a really grave case. The 
doctor’s closed gharry drove into the corner com- 
pound three times a day ; kind neighbours came late 
and early, bringing ice, jelly, and all manner of deli- 
cacies, hoping to tempt the appetite of the invalid, 
and to eke out Colonel Wilkinson’s meagre catering. 
Mrs. Rattray, who had no family cares, took up 
her post in the sick-room, and relieved a trained 
nurse, whilst other ladies — and this is ever an action 
of fatal significance — carried off the children with 


THE BEQUEST 67 

their toys, ayahs, and sleeping-cots; but Angel ran 
home every night and lay on the mat outside her 
mother’s door. 

“If you move me, or touch me, I shall scream” 
such was her diabolical threat, and as Angel was 
known to be a child of her word, she was suffered to 
remain undisturbed. There she stayed, hour after 
hour, wide awake, and motionless as a stone. In 
spite of all efforts on the part of the doctor and 
nurses, the patient grew worse — the fever, like an 
internal fire, seemed to consume the slender thread 
of her existence. The verandah was now utterly de- 
serted, even by the dirzee ; the plants were withered 
and black from want of water ; insolent crows prom- 
enaded over the matting, and the voices of the 
servants were hushed. One could almost guess from 
the exterior of the premises that the mistress of 
the house lay dying within. Colonel Wilkinson sat 
alone in his dim little office ; he had not the heart to 
read or write, or even to tot up his accounts. An 
occasional low conference with Mrs. Rattray or the 
doctor, and a spare and solitary meal, alone broke 
the hot, heavy hours. 

These whisperings conveyed bad news ; his wife’s 
condition was extremely grave, and he could not hold 
himself blameless. Instead of investing those six 
thousand rupees in jute and cotton mills, he ought 
to have sent her and her children to the hills. He 
was face to face with his own conscience. He con- 
fessed to himself that he was too fond of money. 
Was this a case of saving money and losing life? 
Remorse is a stern acquaintance, and Colonel Wil- 
kinson blamed himself bitterly. Sad to relate, 


68 


ANGEL 


in spite of all these searchings of heart, such is the 
force of habit, and so strongly was he held by the 
grasp of avarice, within half an hour of his self- 
condemnation Colonel Wilkinson was out in the 
compound announcing to the milkman “that, now 
the children were from home, one measure was suf- 
ficient;” and he took the same opportunity of in- 
forming his cook “that a two anna chicken was am- 
ple for broth.” 

That same evening the bulletin was more favour- 
able; the patient had recovered consciousness; she 
ceased to ramble about gores and whalebone, dresses 
and debts; she slept for several hours, and in 
the morning begged to see the children. After- 
wards she talked for some time with Colonel Wil- 
kinson, and gave him two bills to settle — ^bills which 
she would never have ventured to show him had she 
been in her normal state of health. 

“Please pay these, Richard,” she faltered; “they 
have been a terrible nightmare on my mind for 
months.” Colonel Wilkinson pooh-poohed the ac- 
counts, and thrust them unexamined into his pocket. 
His spirits rose — he became sanguine. He declared 
to Mrs. Rattray that “when Lena could think of 
bills she was on the mend, and he was determined to 
write for a house at Mussouri by the night’s post 
(even now he grudged a rupee or two for a tele- 
gram) and move her at once. She would be all right 
as soon as she was out of Ramghur. All she wanted 
was a change.” In the midst of their conference, 
both Colonel Wilkinson and Mrs. Rattray were a 
good deal taken aback by hearing the sick woman 
express a desire to speak to Philip Gascoigne. 


THE BEQUEST 


69 

'‘Gascoigne, my dear,” expostulated her hus- 
band ; “what an extraordinary idea ! Oh, you must 
not think of seeing him — it would be extremely bad 
for you.” 

“It will be worse for me if I do not see him,” she 
answered, with an unexpected force. “I have some- 
thing to say to him ; please do not worry, but send for 
him at once.” 

An invalid’s whim must necessarily be humoured, 
and whilst her husband went away to despatch a 
note, Lena Wilkinson desired her ayah to dress her 
hair — yes, to get the irons and crimp and curl it, and 
then array her in a pink satin tea- jacket, fasten a row 
of pearls round her neck, and bring her her rings and 
bangles. Mrs. Rattray assisted at this melancholy 
toilette; she was well aware of the patient’s ruling 
passion — a passion strong in death. There, in the 
open wardrobe from which the ayah had brought the 
tea-jacket, hung rows of pretty gowns, and conspic- 
uous among them that copy of Mrs. Dawson’s white 
silk which she and Mrs. Wilkinson had manufac- 
tured with such mischievous enjoyment. 

As soon as the dressing up of the weak and gasp- 
ing moribund was concluded, when she was propped 
up with pillows, her fan and handkerchief placed 
beside her, she faltered out : 

“Give me some of the medicine — a, double dose — 
yes, and when Mr. Gascoigne comes show him in at 
once.” Then, as she looked at Mrs. Rattray, “I 
wish to see him alone — on family business.” 

“Cannot Colonel Wilkinson ” began her 

friend persuasively. 


70 ANGEL 

But she cut her short with a quick gesture of dis- 
sent. 

'‘Very well, dear,” agreed her nurse, "I will bring 
him in the moment he arrives ; but promise me not 
to talk much, or to let him stay more than five min- 
utes.” 

"Oh, I promise nothing; it is for him to do that,” 
panted the invalid. "But I — won’t keep him long.” 

When the visitor, greatly bewildered, was ushered 
into a large darkened room, with a slowly moving 
punkah, he was prepared to see a certain change in 
his cousin Lena, but he was horrified when he beheld 
her, half sitting up, arrayed in pink satin and pearls, 
her hair elaborately dressed, her eyes glittering with 
fever — death in her face. Oh, why did Mrs. Rat- 
tray lend herself to this frightful mockery? He 
glanced over at that blameless lady, who obviously 
avoided his eye. 

"Well, Phil — so good of you to come,” said the 
invalid in a weak voice. "Fm a little better to-day, 
and I want so much to have a talk with you.” 

As she concluded, Mrs. Rattray, who had placed a 
chair for the visitor, stole out on tiptoe, dropping 
the purdah softly behind her. 

"You should not talk, or see anyone, Lena,” he 
protested, still standing, "and I am not going to 
stay.” 

"Oh, yes, just for a few minutes,” she pleaded, 
laying a burning hand on his wrist, "for I have 
something most urgent to say to you, and until I say 
it I cannot rest in peace. It is about Angel; sit 
down, won’t you,” pointing to the chair, "and where 
I can see you,” 


THE BEQUEST 71 

Gascoigne obeyed her in silence. 

“Philip/’ she continued, gazing at him with her 
wonderfully eloquent blue eyes, “I am — going to 
die.” 

He raised his hand in a quick gesture of protest. 

“No,” she resumed. “Listen — you can speak for 
the next forty years — I shall be dumb for ever — in 
a few hours. Philip, I shall die happy — yes, quite 
happy — if you will promise me one thing.” 

He glanced at her, and bent his head. 

“Will you — take charge of Angel ?” 

This request was succeeded by a silence only 
broken by the wheezy creaking of the punkah rope. 
Philip Gascoigne was not naturally impulsive, a 
promise from him carried its full weight. The 
singular difference between Philip and his house- 
mate was this, that Shafto performed less than he 
promised, whilst Gascoigne was ever better than his 
word. He turned away his gaze from those two 
all-compelling tragic eyes, looked down on the floor, 
and strove to rally his scattered senses. He must 
immediately realise what this promise signified. It 
meant that he should educate Angel, and become her 
guardian; there was no one else to accept the post, 
as far as he could see. Tony’s relations had cast 
him off when he married ; Lena was a penniless or- 
phan. There remained but Colonel Wilkinson. As 
he pondered the question, the dying woman seemed 
to devour him with her eyes. At last he looked up 
and met them steadily, and said: 

“Yes, Lena, I will.” 

“I know I am asking an enormous favour,” she 
whispered. “I am imposing on your youth and 


ANGEL 


72 

generosity, but I am desperate, and to whom else 
can I turn? You are the only Gascoigne I know, 
and you understand that Richard and Angel could 
never live together. He detests her; she loathes 
him. On the other hand — she loves you.” 

Gascoigne was about to speak, but once more she 
prevented him. 

‘‘It is a strange legacy to bequeath to a young 
man, and you are but six-and-twenty, Phil — I am 
leaving in your charge a child of nine, uneducated, 
undisciplined, and born and bred in India. But you 
are well off — you have a private income, and she 
will not cost you much. Once educated, she can 
earn her own living, and give you no more trouble 
— if you will only tide her over the next seven years. 
Philip,” she continued in a louder voice, suddenly 
raising herself with an immense effort, “if you will 
do this good action, I believe it will bring you a great 
blessing — dying people see far, and I can see — that.” 

Here she paused, and fell back on her pillows com- 
pletely exhausted. 

“I will certainly carry out your wishes, Lena,” he 
answered impressively. “I will send Angel home, 
educate her, provide for her, and watch over her 
always — or until she marries.” 

“Oh, you dear, dear fellow !” sobbed Mrs. Wilkin- 
son, with tears running down her sunken cheeks. 
“Words cannot thank you — Angel will — give you — 
deeds.” 

“After all, she is my cousin, Lena — I have no 
belongings ” 

“No, not yet,” interposed his listener; “and it is 
not to every man I would trust the child; but you 


THE BEQUEST 


73 

are honourable and high-minded — you will be her 
big brother.” 

“I will be her guardian ; I am nearly twenty years 
older than she is.” 

“Only seventeen, Philip,” corrected his cousin. 
“Well, at any rate, some day Angel will repay you — 
I feel an inspiration to tell you this.” 

“But I don't want any payment, Lena.” 

“You have lifted a load from my heart. It would 
have been impossible for Angel to have remained 
with Richard; they are like fire and oil, and what 
would have been her fate? Oh, Philip, it is such a 
tender little heart, and how she will miss me ! Poor 
Dick, he only sees her faults, not her good qualities. 
She is strong-willed, jealous, reckless, and revenge- 
ful, but she will do anything for love. She would 
die for a person she loved. Remember that love is 
the key to her nature, never forget that. I may con- 
fess to you now that Angel is my favourite child, 
my own little fluffy-haired baby ; when we two were 
all alone in the world, then she was all the world 
to me.” 

“Lena,” he said, suddenly leaning forward, and 
speaking with a touch of passion in his voice, “you 
may rely on me — I will do all I can to make her 
happy.” 

“I know you won't be stern, Philip ; you will make 
allowances for her odd, wild ways ; you will love her 
a little — and oh, do forgive me for the charge I am 
laying on your young shoulders.” 

“There is nothing to forgive — that's all nonsense, 
you know,” he said. “Anyway, I would have looked 
after Angel ; I am her next of kin out here.” 


ANGEL 


74 

‘'Yes, poor darling; and only for you she would 
be destitute indeed. I have nothing to leave her but 
these,’’ and Mrs. Wilkinson touched, as she spoke, 
her pearl necklace and bangles. “Her father was 
lavishly extravagant and gave me this,” indicating 
a splendid diamond ring, “and though often hard 
up, I have never parted with it. I somehow felt that 
Angel had a claim on it. Let her have it when she 
is eighteen.” 

“Certainly,” he answered; “but I trust you may 
live to wear it yourself, Lena. Why should you not 
pull through ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know — I may — I may,” she faltered ; 
“but now I have told you my wishes I will not keep 
you. Good-bye,” and she held out her hand, and as 
he took it she turned away her face and burst into 
low, agonising sobs. She had entirely exhausted her 
last reserve of strength. Mrs. Rattray now entered 
the room and beckoned the visitor out, saying : 

“Lena is completely overwrought; she has been 
talking too long, but she was so painfully anxious 
to see you — we could not refuse her.” 

The trained nurse came forward, and as Mrs. 
Rattray dropped the curtain before the door of the 
sick-room, she looked up at Gascoigne interroga- 
tively. 

“She wanted you to promise something,” she said. 

“Yes ; if she should die, I am going to take charge 
of Angel.” 

The lady’s face expressed the blankest amazement. 

“You,” she repeated — “you. Why, you are only 
a boy yourself.” 


THE BEQUEST 75 

‘‘I am six-and-twenty, and seventeen years older 
than the child — a pretty good start/' 

“Yes, now; but not much of a start when she 
grows up — and girls grow up so fast, once they 
enter their teens." 

“At present Angel is in single figures," he re- 
joined, “and small for her age — I think I shall be 
able to look after her." 

“Well, I must say you are very generous," ex- 
claimed Mrs. Rattray, “and I’m sure you have set 
poor Lena’s mind at rest. I admire you — no, you 
need not blush — for your Quixotism, but I think you 
have undertaken a thankless and a dangerous task." 

With these words Mrs. Rattray once more raised 
the purdah and disappeared. In the drawing-room 
Gascoigne found Angel all alone; her eyes looked 
dim; they had great purple marks round them, the 
result of weeping and wakefulness. Her wan little 
face seemed smaller than ever, but it was calm and 
tearless." 

She stood for a moment gazing intently at her 
cousin, and nursing her elbows, a favourite attitude. 
At last she said: 

“Cousin Philip, do you think she is going to die?" 
Her face convulsed as she asked the question, but 
she went on, “Answer me as if I were grown up." 

“I hope not," he replied; “your mother is very ill 
still, but a shade better than she was yesterday. We 
will hope for the best. Would you care to come out 
with me for a little turn?" 

But Angel shook her head impatiently, and darted 
away out of sight. 


ANGEL 


76 

That same evening Mrs. Wilkinson gave Mrs. 
Rattray full elaborate directions respecting her 
funeral, and the children’s mourning, no black ex- 
cept sashes — they had ribbon of the exact width at 
Narainswamy’s — she hated the idea of a shroud, 
and desired to be buried in a white dress, ^'the white 
dress,” she added, ^‘since in it I caught my death.” 

All these injunctions, delivered in a low voice and 
quiet, every-day manner, were a severe ordeal for 
her friend. Presently, when Colonel Wilkinson came 
in to say good-night, he was bidden a solemn good- 
bye. He was much startled, agitated, and shaken, 
and broke down completely. Then her mother sent 
for Angel, who ran in in stockinged feet, climbed on 
the bed, and threw her arms tightly about her, as if 
she would never release her again. 

‘‘Oh, my own poor baby,” murmured the sick 
woman, “I am going — to leave you.” 

“No, mummy,” she returned breathlessly; “no, no, 
never !” 

“I can only talk to you a little, darling, and you 
must listen to every word I say,” urged her mother 
in a whisper. “Philip will take care of you — I have 
given you to him. He has promised to send you 
to England and have you educated. Never forget 
how generous this is — aways obey him and be good. 
I have promised for you — I want you to be so 
happy.” 

“And oh, mummy, I only want to go with you !” 
was the answer in a smothered voice. 

“You will try and Overcome your faults, darling 
— and be good for my sake — won’t you ?” 

“Pll be good — ril be anything,” she wailed, “only 


THE BEQUEST 


77 

don’t leave me! Oh, mummy, mummy!” and the 
child clung tightly to the dying woman, and broke 
into hard, dry sobs. 

‘‘Very well, darling, you shall stay,” and her 
mother put her arm round her as she spoke; “no one 
shall separate us — yet.” 

Colonel Wilkinson was much disturbed and in- 
censed when he heard that, whilst he had been dis- 
missed with a few hurried sentences, Angel had been 
suffered to pass the night on her mother’s bed. 

Worn out with watching and grief, the little 
creature had fallen into the deep sleep of utter 
exhaustion, and was barely conscious as Mrs. Rat- 
tray took her in her arms and carried her away. 

When the fierce May sun rose and glared down 
into the corner bungalow, Angela’s mother still 
slumbered — but hers was the sleep of death. 


CHAPTER X 


A CHALLENGE 

Thus ended the butterfly career of pretty Lena 
Wilkinson, who looked surprisingly fair and girlish, 
as she lay with her hands crossed on her heart, sur- 
rounded by white flowers. She had passed at dawn ; 
sunset witnessed her interment, and a considerable 
company — in fact, the whole station — followed the 
coffin, which was covered with pale blue and silver, 
by the dead woman’s particular desire. The ground 
in the arid cemetery was almost as hard as rock, 
and the cortege was compelled to halt for a time, 
whilst the grave was made ready and enlarged. 
What a depressing scene for a newly-arrived exile! 
The brick-coloured ground, weather-stained head- 
stones, haggard clergyman, and wan-faced assembly 
— the gay and glittering coffin waiting till inhospi- 
table alien soil was prepared to receive it. Over all 
was the stare of a triumphant red sun, sinking 
slowly into the arms of a tropical night. 

At last the service was concluded, and whilst the 
earth was noisily flung upon the blue and silver cof- 
fin and the mourners were dispersing, the station 
cynic, as he walked towards the gate, pronounced 
the epitaph of the deceased : 

'Toor Mrs. Wilkinson, she was like some delicate 
flower without perfume, and as she never did any- 
thing bad, she will soon be forgotten.” 

A few days after the funeral Colonel Wilkinson 


A CHALLENGE 


79 

was faintly surprised to receive a visit from Philip 
Gascoigne. After one or two commonplace remarks, 
the latter explained his errand. 

“I came to speak to you about Angel,’’ he said. 
“I do not know if Lena told you that I am to take 
charge of her.” 

“By Jove! No, not a word,” rejoined the wid- 
ower, and his eyes glistened. “Man alive, you don’t 
mean that you are in earnest?” 

“Yes,” assented his visitor; “I propose to educate 
her, and as soon as I can find a school and a travel- 
ling companion, to send her to England.” 

“Uncommonly handsome of you, I must say,” ex- 
claimed her stepfather. “It will cost you a couple 
of hundred a year.” 

“Then you are satisfied that I relieve you of the 
child?” continued Gascoigne, ignoring the money 
question. 

“Satisfied,” repeated his host; “satisfied, my dear 
fellow, is not the word that expresses my feelings — 
devoutly thankful — happy — enchanted — is more 
like it. My poor wife and I never agreed about the 
child. I may say that she was the only subject on 
which we ever disagreed. From my point of view 
she is a headstrong, malicious little devil, who can- 
not be trusted her own length — you never know 
what mine she will explode on you ! My poor Lena 
held another opinion, and believed her to be ‘a little 
saint.’ ” 

“Perhaps she is something between the two ex- 
tremes,” suggested her cousin drily. 

His companion’s answer was a doubtful grunt, as 
he paced the room tugging at his moustache. “I’ve 


8o 


ANGEL 


been making plans/' he resumed, now pointing to a 
table littered with letters and officials ; ‘I’ve decided 
to chuck the service. This has been a great blow, 
and sickened me with India. How can I soldier, 
and lug a family about with me? I shall go and 
settle on my own property in New Zealand. Of 
course, I am bound to marry again — this seems a 
heartless thing to say, and Lena only dead a week, 
but what am I to do with all the children? It is a 
necessity from a common-sense point of view — a 
housekeeper and a governess would entail no end of 
bother and er — er ” 

“Expense,” suggested his companion sarcastically. 

“Expense! Just so,” seizing the word, “and I’ve 
been wondering what I’m to do with Angel, badger- 
ing my brains with all sorts of schemes, when in you 
walk and take her off my hands. It seems almost 
like a miracle — the interposition of Providence,” he 
added piously; “and now I understand why Lena 
was so anxious to see you.” 

“Yes; it was to talk about Angel, and tell me her 
wishes respecting her.” 

“And what were they?” 

“That I was to be her guardian, and have absolute 
control over the child,” replied the young man. “I 
intend to educate and provide for her. Oh yes, by 
the way, her mother wished her to have all her jew- 
ellery.” 

“All her jewellery!” repeated Colonel Wilkinson. 
“Oh, I don’t know about that! I believe it is my 
property in the eye of the law — there was no will, 
you see.” 

“But you have no girls, and at least you will 


A CHALLENGE 8i 

scarcely care to keep what Angel’s father gave her 
mother ?” 

“I suppose you mean the diamond ring?” stam- 
mered Colonel Wilkinson, a little cowed by the 
young man’s manner. “Well, I’ll think it over; but 
look here, Gascoigne, I’m a firm believer in pen and 
ink; would you mind writing me a letter, a formal 
letter, to say that you propose to relieve me from all 
charges or responsibilities connected with Angela 
Gascoigne?” 

“Certainly, with pleasure; and on your side, I shall 
expect you to hand me over any jewellery that be- 
longed to her mother — at least, before she became 
your wife.” 

“Um,” grunted Colonel Wilkinson, “that ring is 
rather a big thing. I’ve had it valued, and it’s 
worth a hundred pounds.” He took another turn to 
the end of the room and back, then he halted in front 
of his visitor and said, ungraciously, “Well, it’s a 
bargain — you can have the ring, and all the bangles, 
too; it’s a cheap exchange for your written agree- 
ment to rid me of a plague.” 

Philip Gascoigne experienced a most disagreeable 
sensation; he felt precisely as if he had just pur- 
chased the child for a hundred pounds. He instantly 
rose to end the interview, and said, “I will send you 
the document as soon as I go home.” 

“And when will you be prepared to take over 
charge?” inquired the anxious stepfather. 

“Whenever I can make arrangements for her 
passage.” 

“And mourning,” supplemented the other sharply ; 
“you will provide mourning, of course?” 


82 


ANGEL 


“Yes; Mrs. Rattray will perhaps undertake her 
outfit for me. There is a good deal to be done — we 
must wait until after the monsoon has broken; but 
I think I can promise you that in six weeks you will 
have seen the last of Angela.’’ 

“Thank God!” was the fervent rejoinder; “that 
will suit me down to the ground. I won’t be moving 
until the cold weather, not for several months. I say, 
you won’t forget the document, like a good fellow? 
Oh, must you go? I say, have a lime and soda? 
No, by the way, we are out of soda-water. Well, 
then, good-bye — I’ve a heap of business to get 
through — you know your way out ? Ta, ta.” 

As the visitor was about to cross the verandah a 
little figure issued from a side door, and sprang on 
him and seized his arm in her grasp. “I’ve been 
waiting for you for ages, Phil. Why did you stay 
with him so long?” 

“I’ve been telling Colonel Wilkinson that you are 
to be my charge, Angel,” responded her cousin, “and 
that in a few weeks’ time I hope to send you to 
England.” 

“And how much are you to pay?” she demanded 
bluntly. 

“Pay,” repeated the young man; “why should I 
pay anything?” 

“Because he never gives without something in 
exchange.” Angel had a bad opinion of her fellow- 
creatures, and a piercing eye for a hidden motive. 
“What do you think Ayah Anima is doing now by 
his orders?” 

“She gave them some broth without any bread, 

She whipped them ” 


A CHALLENGE 


83 

“No/' interrupting the quotation with angry em- 
phasis, “but selling all my mummy’s pretty frocks 
and hats in the patchery and bazaar ! She is taking 
them round among the soldiers’ wives in barracks, 
now/* 

Gascoigne made no comment on this pitiful illus- 
tration of Colonel Wilkinson’s thrift; in his mind’s 
eye, he already beheld various reproductions of Mrs. 
Wilkinson at band and race meeting. 

He diplomatically opened a fresh subject by ask- 
ing, “How will you like to go to England, Angel ?” 

“Oh, I shall be glad to get away from hateful 
Ramghur,” she answered, “but dreadfully sorry to 
leave you. I’ve no one but you now — have I, Phil ?” 

“Oh, you’ll make heaps of friends when you get 
home,” was his evasive reply. 

“Who is to take me to England?” she asked 
sharply. 

“I’m not certain,” he replied, “and I’ve not had 
time to make inquiries, but perhaps Mrs. Dawson.” 

“Mrs. Dawson,” she echoed with an odd, elfish 
laugh; “she does not like me — lots of people don’t 
like me, cousin Phil,” and she looked at him wistfully 
— such a frail, friendless little creature, his heart was 
filled with pity as he answered : 

“I like you, Angel — that is something to begin 
with? Would you care to come over and have tea 
with us this afternoon at four o’clock ?” 

“Oh yes, yes !” dancing up and down as she glee- 
fully accepted ; “and may I pour it out ?” 

“You may, if we can raise a small teapot. Now 
there’s the bell ; run away to your dinner.” 

A proud, not to say puffed-up, child was that 


ANGEL 


84 

which ran across to the big bungalow in a newly 
starched frock and wide black sash. In the verandah 
Angel found the two young men, who welcomed her 
cordially, and made her sit between them and pour 
out tea. And what a pouring out it was ; what a slop- 
ping of milk it entailed, a dropping of the lid of the 
teapot into the sugar-basin, and a spoon into the hot 
water! Hosts and guest made tea and made merry 
together. There was a cake, too, in which ‘‘the 
three’’ evinced a profound interest, and Angel chat- 
tered incessantly to them and to her companions. 
Her satisfaction was complete when she was con- 
ducted all over the premises and into the stables, 
where Sally Lunn condescended to eat a piece of 
sugar-cane from her hand. This visit was the pre- 
cursor of many. Angel was accorded the freedom 
of the bungalow, and spent many happy hours within 
its walls, looking at pictures, making tea, or mending 
gloves for her bachelor hosts. 

Discipline at home was considerably relaxed. 
Colonel Wilkinson was feverishly busy making 
ready for his move, and Great Sale, getting old fur- 
niture re-covered, glued up, and varnished. Already 
the catalogue was in the printer’s hands, and the ad- 
jectives “splendid,” “unique,” “handsome,” and 
“magnificent” were in extraordinary prominence. 

Thanks to the preparations, which were going 
forward, Angel was spared to her neighbours for 
many an afternoon. She was not a tiresome child, 
as Shafto freely admitted; she was noiseless, the 
dogs liked her, the bearer tolerated her, and when 
Gascoigne was absent she was content to curl herself 
up in a chair with a book or a stocking. 


A CHALLENGE 85 

Whenever he could afford time her cousin treated 
her to a drive; but in these, the last days of a truly 
fearful hot season, driving had ceased to be a joy. 
All the world was waiting for the rains, and gazing 
with strained expectation at the great bank of black 
clouds to the westward, on which the sheet lightning 
danced every night in dazzling diagrams. This 
cloud-bank coming nearer, oh, so slowly! embodied 
the longed-for rains. 

For advice and guidance respecting his new 
charge, her cousin repaired to Mrs. Rattray. Mrs. 
Rattray had been Mrs. Wilkinson^s friend, and she 
was a kind-hearted, practical woman. There were 
other ladies who would gladly have advised the in- 
experienced young guardian, but he did not believe 
in a multitude of counsellors. 

Mrs. Gordon was charming, but she was too 
young — a mere girl herself I Mrs. Dawson did not 
care for children, and was alarmingly stiff and for- 
mal; so when it was possible he snatched half- 
an-hour in order to confer with Mrs. Rattray over 
letters and telegrams, and matters connected with 
AngeFs passage, outfit, and destination. 

Late one afternoon he called on this lady by 
appointment. Angel was with him when he drove 
up to the Rattrays' neat bungalow, which stood 
back from the road in a small enclosure, full of 
pretty shrubs and flowering trees. It had two gates, 
both opening into the principal thoroughfare in 
Ramghur. 

‘T’m going in here, Angel,’’ announced her cousin. 
‘T won’t be more than ten minutes, and you can wait 
in the cart.” 


86 


ANGEL 


“All right/’ she assented, but tendering two eager 
hands ; “may I hold the reins ?” 

“Very well; but only for show, mind,” he said as 
he relinquished them. “Promise me you won’t at- 
tempt to drive.” 

“Yes, I’ll promise,” she assented reluctantly, for 
she had entertained a glorious vision of trotting out 
at one gate, and whirling in at the other. 

With a brief order to the syce to remain at Sally’s 
head, Gascoigne went indoors. He had come to de- 
cide finally the choice of school for Angel. 

Mrs. Rattray could hardly restrain a smile, as she 
sat vis-a-vis to this good-looking young bachelor, 
who, with his elbows on the table and his hands in 
his hair, was anxiously comparing two prospectuses. 
It was really astonishing how soon he had accommo- 
dated himself to his novel situation. 

“I must say it is very good of you to adopt ” 

“Don’t !” he protested, raising his hand. “Please, 
Mrs. Rattray — every second person I meet tells me 
the same thing — it is not.” 

“Very well,” she interrupted; “then I will tell you 
something you have not heard yet. I think you are 
rashly adventurous.” 

“I don’t see that at all,” he replied. 

“You will find that Angela requires a strong hand 
— she is not the least like any child I’ve ever known. 
I’ve not known many intimately — it is true. She 
will soon pick up an education at home, for she 
is quick and bright ; but she has another education to 
forget, the education she has acquired out here from 
servants.” 

“Oh, she’s bound to forget that,” said her cousin. 


A CHALLENGE 


87 

'‘Is she?’’ rejoined the lady doubtfully; “I hope 
so. Now I wonder if you even faintly realise what 
you have undertaken?” 

“I am not sure that I have come down to the bed- 
rock of my responsibilities — but I will do my best.” 

“Of course, I know that,” said the lady. “But 
pray bear in mind that it is not a stray pony or a 
lost dog to whom you are playing Providence. You 
have assumed the charge of a human life, a child 
with a strange nature, and who will be an extraordi- 
nary woman some day.” 

“Yes ; but at present the woman, thank Heaven, is 
in the far-away future, and I have only to do with a 
child.” 

“I hope Angel will never give you reason to regret 
your generosity.” 

“I’m sure she will be all right. You make far too 
much of the business. I’m only sending my poor 
cousin’s little orphan to school. She will turn out 
well, if she falls into good hands,” and here he held 
up several letters and said : “It is for you to choose 
to whose keeping I entrust her.” 

In the meantime the subject of this conversation 
sat in the cart outside, enormously impressed by the 
importance of her position. To other children who 
passed the gate she nodded with an air of splendid 
condescension; they stared and stared and looked 
back enviously at the little Gascoigne girl all alone 
in a dogcart, holding the reins. Truly, these were 
some of Angela’s proudest moments. 

But one acquaintance, a bare-legged, freckled boy, 
in a striped cotton suit, boldly walked up the drive 
between the shrubs, and proceeded to interview little 


88 


ANGEL 


Gascoigne. This intruder was Toady Dodd, a youth 
of eight, son of an impecunious house, and Angelas 
mortal enemy. 

“Hullo !” he shouted, standing with hands in pock- 
ets and legs wide apart ; “what a swell we are, cocked 
up there!’' 

“Yes — miles up above you,” she retorted sharply; 
“run away and steal some more macaroons,” a mali- 
cious reminder of some past evil deed. 

“Are you going to drive?” he inquired, calmly 
ignoring the rude suggestion, “or are you just there 
for show?” 

Angel gave a brief nod. 

*What a show!” cried Toady, cutting a caper, and 
making a series of hideous grimaces. Angel now 
leant over and lifted the whip out of its socket, and 
began to handle it significantly. 

“You’re afraid to drive, ain’t you?” he screamed. 
No reply; his adversary was far too proud to record 
her promise. 

“Drive out of the gate and back,” urged the 
tempter, “and I’ll never say you’re a coward 
again.” 

“I’m not a coward, you ugly, freckled toad,” she 
screamed. “If you don’t mind, I shall hit you with 
the whip.” 

“First catch me,” he shouted derisively, executing 
a war dance just out of reach. Come now — I dare 
you — dare you — to hit the horse.” 

To touch Sally with the whip was not driving, 
argued the child with herself; and consumed by a 
feminine desire to show off, and exasperated by her 
tormentor, with a force really intended for him, she 


A CHALLENGE 89 

brought the lash suddenly down on Sally's shining 
flank. 

Instantly there was a vicious bang against the 
splash-board; Angel felt herself shot into the air, 
and remembered no more. The shrieks of Toady, the 
yells of the syce, and the sound of thundering hoofs 
summoned Gascoigne to the steps. There he saw 
the syce picking himself up with great care, he saw a 
white bunch and two black legs in the middle of a 
croton bush, he saw a great cloud of dust flying down 
the road — and that was all ! He ran to the shrub and 
disentangled Angel, who had gone in head fore- 
most and was merely stunned and speechless. The 
servant, however, found his tongue, when he dis- 
covered that his injuries were not mortal. 

“Missy Baba — ^beating with whip — horse done 
gone !" 

Such was his brief explanation. 

Meanwhile the real cause of all the mischief lurked 
under a great creeper, and remained a palpitating 
spectator of the scene. As soon as Angel had re- 
covered her senses she began to exculpate herself in 
sobbing gasps, “Oh, Philip, I didn't drive — I did not 
drive. I only touched Sally with the whip." And 
she burst into a storm of tears, whilst the syce ran 
limping out, in order to raise the station and catch 
the runaway. 

5|e 5le :|e 3|c 

It was in a second-class “fitton" that Angel re- 
turned home. A fitton is a ramshackle phaeton, 
drawn by a pair of bony ponies, and a second-class 
fitton is precisely what it claims to be. From this 
lowly equipage the delinquent was delivered over to 


90 ANGEL 

her ayah, who awaited her on the verandah with 
stolid dignity. 

“And the dogcart and big horse,” she cried, “what 
hath befallen them?” But Miss Gascoigne merely 
shrugged her shoulders and stalked of¥ into her own 
apartment. Her cousin did not escape so easily ; he 
had dismissed the conveyance, and was proceeding 
on foot, when he encountered his chum. 

“I say, where are Sally and the trap?” asked 
Shafto. 

“Fve no notion,” he answered; “in Jericho, for all 
I know.” 

“But,” pulling up, “I say — bar jokes.” 

“Oh, yes, I bar jokes,” agreed Gascoigne; “I left 
Angel holding the reins when I was in at the Rat- 
trays’. I heard a scrimmage, and when I ran out 
Angel was in the bush, the syce on his back, and 
Sally was nowhere. I believe the child touched her 
with the whip — at any rate, she went through the 
station like greased lightning.” 

“Great Scotland !” ejaculated his friend, “and with 
the cart at her heels — a mare that is worth a thou- 
sand rupees, and the trap new from Dykes’ last sea- 
son. So much for Angel! Has she broken her 
neck ?” 

“No, but she is breaking her heart, poor little 
soul.” 

“Odious little beast, she has no heart to break — 
that’s where you make a mistake. Where are you 
off to?” 

“To send out all the syces in the place to chase 
Sally — she went towards the railway.” 

“Oh, I’ll run her down ; but, mind you, Phil, next 


A CHALLENGE 


91 

time you see her she’ll have broken knees,” and with 
this agreeable prophecy he galloped away. There 
was no sign of Sally all that night, but various 
rumours respecting her were afloat in the Club. One 
lady had seen a ghostly horse and trap dash up at 
her door at dark, and when a servant ran to the steps 
the horse had wheeled sharp round, plunged through 
a low hedge, cart and all, and vanished. 

Later, an empty vehicle and a galloping steed had 
been viewed beyond the jail. At eight o’clock the 
next morning the syce reappeared with a quadruped 
said to be the runaway animal, coated from head to 
tail with sweat and red dust ; her very eyes were half 
closed. Who could believe that this dirty, demoral- 
ised, limping creature was smart Sally Lunn? Yet 
it was Sally, and, marvellous to relate, her knees 
were unblemished. She had been captured five miles 
out in the open country on her back in a dry nullah, 
with the trap under her. The shattered remains of 
the vehicle followed soberly on the Ryot’s bullock 
cart — it was minus a wheel, a shaft, also mats, lamps, 
cushions, but these were subsequently collected in 
various parts of the cantonment — and their owner 
came to the conclusion that he had got out of the 
business far better than he expected. Sally was ter- 
ribly nervous and wild for weeks ; the cart was de- 
spatched to Lucknow to be repaired — and there were 
no more drives for Angel. 


CHAPTER XI 


WHO IS SHE? 

The monsoon had broken at last, and the rain 
descended and the floods came in drenching sheets. 
Red plains sprang to life, and became a delicate 
green, frogs croaked hilariously, snakes were washed 
out of their holes, sickly vegetation revived as if 
touched by some magician’s wand, and all the 
oleanders were in flower. 

During the long, wet days, when nullahs were 
racing torrents and the avenue a running stream — 
a joy to the ducks — Angel was constantly to be 
found at the big bungalow, playing the role of enfant 
de la maison. She was permitted to wander through 
the empty rooms, and to amuse herself to her heart’s 
content. Her guardian was a good deal from home ; 
since the first burst of the rains had sorely tried the 
piers of the new bridge over the Ram Gunga, every 
morning at an early hour he wrapped himself in a 
mackintosh and leggings, mounted his horse, and 
splashed away. Even in the afternoons Shafto and 
Angel frequently had the premises to themselves; 
the former took but scant notice of his companion, 
for ever since the ‘‘Sally episode” she had been un- 
pardoned and in his black books. 

One afternoon he was enjoying a lazy spell, a 
sporting paper and a cheroot, in the verandah; the 
“Imp,” as he mentally called her, was presumably 


WHO IS SHE? 93 

amusing herself in the interior with the dogs or the 
bearer’s little girl — or both. He had, in fact, for- 
gotten her existence, and was absorbed in the 
weights for the Leger, when three cold, moist fingers 
were laid on his cheek, and between his eyes and the 
printed page was thrust a large photograph. 

Naturally he started, exclaimed, and stared. Then 
he became conscious that he was looking at the 
charming picture of a beautiful girl of nineteen, with 
glorious eyes and a faint but bewitching smile. 
Shafto, the ever-susceptible, seized the portrait in 
both hands and examined it exhaustively. It had 
something to say for itself, too; across one corner 
was inscribed, in a dashing caligraphy, the name 
“Lola.” He continued to study the face with a puz- 
zled air, then turned and stared at the child inter- 
rogatively. 

Was this one of her mother’s friends? To the 
best of his recollection, he had never seen the face 
in Mrs. Wilkinson’s drawing-room. 

“Do you think she is pretty?” inquired Angel 
eagerly, as she met his glance. 

“Ra — ther,” was his emphatic reply. “But who 
is she? — where the dickens did you unearth her?” 

“In Philip’s room,” was the unexpected response. 
“Oh, you need not look so shocked, Mr. Billy 
Shafto,” she cried audaciously; “I’ve not stolen it! 
I was only searching for some paper to draw on — he 
generally has lots — and I opened his shabby old 
leather box and found some. Two lovely bits of 
cardboard, and in the middle — between them — this. 
Who is she, do you know? Do you think — he is 
in love with her ?” she asked anxiously. 


94 


ANGEL 


‘‘Fll tell you what I do think,” said Shafto, sud- 
denly sitting erect, ‘‘I think you ought to be well 
whipped.” 

Angel’s pale face became pink to the roots of her 
hair. 

‘‘How dare you go and pry among Mr. Gas- 
coigne’s papers,” he resumed, “you infernal little 
monkey? You are a horrid, sneaking, sly little imp.” 

“But what have I done?” she protested in a shrill 
key. “I was only looking for something to draw 
on — and why shouldn’t he have one lady, when you 
have eleven in your room? Yes, all in frames, and 
two of Mrs. Giddy on your writing-table.” 

This was carrying the war into the enemy’s camp 
with a vengeance! For a moment her companion, 
who was now at boiling-point, struggled desperately 
for composure and speech. At last he said with an 
effort : 

“You just march back at once and put that 
photograph where you found it.” 

As he spoke he drew the silver paper carefully 
over the face, as if he would hide Philip’s sweetheart 
from the elf’s prying eyes. Angel snatched it out 
of his hand with a jerk, and walked away without 
one word; but she deliberately studied the photo- 
graph till she learnt the face by heart. She learnt 
something more also, for as she replaced it, on its 
original wrapping she read on the paper in the same 
bold scrawl, “To Phil — with Lola’s love.” 

So that was Philip’s secret, thought Shafto; that 
was Philip’s lady-love, who, by all accounts, had 
chucked him. She had a lovely face, a haunting 
face; what bad luck for poor old Phil! — and that 


WHO IS SHE? 95 

meddlesome imp had discovered his hidden skeleton, 
had dragged it forth into daylight, and possibly ex- 
hibited it all round the servants’ quarters, and finally 
come to him and asked in her little fluting voice, 
*Who is sher 

And here came Phil at last, in dripping condition 
on a dripping horse — what a pair of drowned rats ! 

As soon as he had changed his clothes Gascoigne 
appeared in the verandah, looked about, and said : 

“Hullo, where is Angel? I thought she was com- 
ing over to make tea ?” 

“Oh, she has been here all right enough,” rejoined 
his comrade grimly; “very much here. I believe she 
has departed. I saw her flying across the compound 
just now. Phil, that child, instead of making tea, 
has been making hay in your room.” 

“Oh, has she?” he responded carelessly, as he lit 
a cheroot. “Well, she can’t do much harm there.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” retorted Shafto with 
tragic significance. “She found the photograph of 
one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen, and brought 
it out for information — awfully keen to know all 
about it.” 

Gascoigne jumped up suddenly, and took the 
cigar out of his mouth. His face was stern as he 
looked fixedly at his friend. 

“Billy, this is some of your chaff.” 

“I swear it’s not,” protested Shafto forcibly. 
“That prying imp was rooting in your despatch box. 
Ah!” he concluded in a significant undertone, as 
Gascoigne hurriedly left him. 

After a short absence his friend returned, and re- 
sumed his seat without one word. 


ANGEL 


96 

“I made her put it back,” continued his com- 
panion. “I always knew that you’d be let in by that 
child, somehow.” 

“No,” rejoined the other; “I let myself in — as 
you call it.” 

“You can’t deny that she has made a rather 
brilliant beginning. Smashing up a new dogcart, 
unearthing your most sacred possession, and flaunt- 
ing it round the house. What on earth are you 
going to do with her?” 

“I’m going to send her to school next week.” 

“And afterwards ?” 

“She will make her home with some nice family.” 

“Nice prospect for the nice family,” remarked 
Shafto. “And after she has quite done with the nice 
family?” 

“That is far enough ahead,” replied Gascoigne 
with a touch of impatience. “Angel won’t be grown 
up for years, and we may all be dead by that time.” 

“Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking 
at it. One thing is certain, whoever is dead, Angel 
won’t weep. She has no more heart than a paving- 
stone.” 

“Why do you say that?” demanded her cousin 
quickly. 

“Simply because it is patent to all the world that 
she has forgotten her mother already. She never 
mentions her name ” 

“That does not matter — that is no sign,” argued 
her champion ; “she thinks more of her mother than 
the whole Wilkinson family put together. The 
other morning, when there was a break in the rains 
and I was out early, I saw a small figure staggering 


WHO IS SHE? 


97 

over towards the cemetery, carrying a pot as large as 
herself. I kept behind, of course, and did not let her 
see me ; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother’s 
grave. There’s no stone up yet.” 

'‘No, nor ever will be,” supplemented Shafto. 

“The cemetery is more than a mile away,” con- 
tinued Gascoigne; “so you will allow that it was 
rather a big job for a child of her age.” 

“Oh, yes,” admitted her implacable adversary; 
“Angel’s jobs are generally on a large scale.” 

“She steals off every morning almost before 
light,” resumed her defender. 

“What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl 
at such an hour?” 

“Oh, the ayah allows her to go her own way now ; 
she can’t control her,” confessed her cousin. 

“No, nor anyone else,” muttered Shafto. “Look 
here,” he added suddenly, “I’ll tell you something, 
Phil. That child is going to be a beauty.” 

“Nonsense — not she. You are mad about beauty, 
rejoined his friend contemptuously. 

“Yes, she is, and something out of the ordinary, 
too, if I am any judge. This, I imagine, will com- 
plicate matters. Oh, my poor old boy, I wouldn’t 
be in your shoes for a thousand pounds !” 


CHAPTER XII 


ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET 

It was the evening before AngeFs departure for 
England. Her luggage was carefully labelled, her 
roll of wraps was strapped, all arrangements were 
complete. She was to travel under the neatly 
trimmed wing of Mrs. Dawson, leaving Ramghur 
at dawn. Gascoigne had intended accompanying 
his charge to Bombay, but duty could not spare him 
— no, not even to escort her to the railway station; 
he had just received an urgent telegram which called 
him away that night, and had walked over to take 
leave of Angel, followed by the three. They were all 
pacing up and down Colonel Wilkinson’s desolate 
verandah, the man and child side by side, the dogs 
in close attendance. It was a cool evening in the 
rains, and the sun had recently set in a blaze of 
dramatic magnificence. 

“Now, Angel,” said the young man after a short 
silence, “you are going to be a credit to me, I know.” 

“Yes, I am,” she answered with superb self-con- 
fidence ; “Til do anything you like, only tell me what 
I am to do.” 

“Think three times before you speak,” he sug- 
gested. 

“Oh, I shall hate that,” she rejoined with a shrug. 

“But you know you often blurt out things that 
you really don’t mean, and that get you into trouble.” 


ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET 99 

“Uni ' — yes ” she admitted with a pout, “and what 
else?” 

“Never be afraid to speak the truth.” 

“I’m not — not a little bit,” she proclaimed. 

“Mind you stick to that — it’s more than most of 
your elders can say. You will write to me every 
week, and let me know how you get on ?” 

“Yes; and you will answer my letters — they will 
be the only ones I shall get.” 

“You may be sure I shall write, and the dogs, too; 
they shall send you their photographs.” 

“Oh, Philip,” she exclaimed, “how I wish you 
were coming home before two long years! I shall 
mark off the weeks till I see you, beginning to- 
morrow; and I’ll save up every single one of my 
secrets to tell you.” 

“I don’t think they will give you much trouble.” 

“Oh, won’t they? I know quantities of secrets. 
Shall I tell you one now ?” 

“Yes, if you like,” he rejoined indifferently, “as 
long as it is your own property; I don’t want to 
listen to other people’s affairs.” 

“But this one is my own, my very own — Philip. 
You must promise me not to tell anyone ever” 

“How solemn and important you look!” he 
laughed; “what can this mighty secret be? Yes, I 
see you are panting to tell me — I promise. Now 
for it.” 

“Then listen,” she began mysteriously, “no — ^first 
come inside,” and she beckoned him to follow her 
into the drawing-room ; then she ran to the different 
half-doors and peeped furtively around, whilst her 
cousin waited to hear the important disclosure with 


LoiC. 


lOO 


ANGEL 


an expression of amused toleration. What a little 
actress she was, darting about from door to door! 
At last she came up to him, looked him straight in 
the face, folded her hands, and said in a voice that 
quivered with triumph : 

“It was I — who cut up Mrs. Dawson’s dresses.” 

“What do you say ?” gasped her companion, star- 
ing incredulously into the small white face. 

“She wouldn’t let me go home with her, if she 
knew, would she?” and Angel cracked the joints of 
all her fingers, native style, as if she were letting off 
a succession of squibs. 

“You are not in earnest, Angel? — not about the 
dresses?” he expostulated, with bated breath. 

“But I am,” she retorted sharply; “she never 
asked mother to see them — and mother cried. So I 
just took the dirzee’s scissors and ran out in the 
dusk,” illustrating the action with her skinny arms, 
“through your compound ; then I crawled into Mrs. 
Dawson’s verandah — I believe the chokedar took me 
for a dog. No one else was watching — I stole into 
her room and just cut everything to pieces. Oh, my, 
it was fun — snipping the feathers, tearing the crepe, 
and hacking away at the satin. You should have 
seen the room. I was very sorry for the pretty 
things — ^but I had to do it, and all quick, quick as 
lightning, for of course if Mrs. Dawson had caught 
me she would have killed me. Then I crept out, and 
got behind a pillar and away into the shadows, 
through a hole in the wall, and home.” She paused 
breathless with exultation, and her listener, as he 
scrutinised the small, ruthless countenance, began 
to realise that his responsibilities were heavier than 


ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET loi 

he anticipated, and that there was more of the imp 
than the angel in his little ward. 

‘‘Why do you look so queer?” she cried suddenly. 
“I only did it because I loved my mummy; I would 
do as much for you to-morrow. Why don’t you 
speak? — are you shocked?” 

“Yes — I should think I was. I am wondering 
what your mother would have said to this,” he 
demanded sternly. 

“Oh, mummy would have scolded and pretended 
to be angry,” she answered, with an air of serene 
conviction, “but in her heart all the time she would 
be so glad.” 

And as she pronounced this opinion, she nursed 
her elbows and nodded her head reassuringly. 

“Well, Angel,” said her cousin after a painful 
silence, “I would not have believed this story from 
any lips but your own. I can hardly credit what you 
tell me. I am sorry to find that you are different to 
what I thought you were, a mischievous, vindictive, 
cunning child.” 

For an instant the little culprit looked stunned, as 
if she could not believe her ears. 

“Oh, Phil !” she cried in a voice of intense anguish. 
“Don’t say it — I’m not — I’m not — and I’m going 
away to-morrow, and you are angry with me. Oh, 
what shall I do, what shall I do?” 

And she wrung her tiny hands in a wild frenzy of 
grief. 

“It is certainly time you went home, Angel,” he 
returned steadily, “and if you love me, as you say, I 
implore you to play no more of these monkey tricks. 
I hate treacherous, underhand ways. Think of all 


102 


ANGEL 


the damage you did. You destroyed what must have 
cost a great deal of money.” 

'‘But, Phil, you don’t understand,” she pleaded, 
and tears rained down her face; “I did all for 
mummy, my own mummy, and now” — ^lier voice 
rising to a wail — “she is dead, and you are angry — 
oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” 

She flung herself downwards on the sofa in the 
abandonment of her grief, and buried her head in the 
cushion. 

“Come now, Angel,” said her cousin, stooping 
over her, “don’t cry like this — your secret has given 
me an unexpected shock, and shown me a side of 
your character that — frightens me — but,” as her sobs 
shook her, “sit up and dry your eyes, little girl. As 
this is our last evening, I will say no more. You will 
be good, won’t you?” he whispered, stroking her 
hair. 

“Yes, yes, if you will love me,” and she raised 
herself and looked at him with piteous, entreating 
eyes. 

“All right, then,” he agreed, “that’s a bargain. I 
will love you if you are good. Hullo, here comes 
Colonel Wilkinson.” 

“Oh, then,” starting up, “we must say good-bye.” 
Gascoigne sat down beside the child, and was about 
to stoop and kiss her, when she flung her arms round 
his neck and pressed her lips to his with the passion 
of a desolate, forlorn creature who was parting, per- 
haps for ever, with her only friend. 

Her action was the more surprising, since she was 
a child who recoiled from endearments, and coldly 
turned away her face when ladies would have 


ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET 103 

caressed her. As suddenly as she had embraced her 
cousin, she released and pushed him from her with 
violence and ran out of the room. Her stepfather, 
who encountered Angel in the doorway, now ad- 
vanced, rubbing his hands complacently. 

‘‘So she’s quite broken down, I see. That’s just 
her one redeeming point — her affection for you. She 
has no feeling for anyone else. Just fancy, she never 
expressed the smallest regret at being parted from 
her dear little brothers, and when the ayah said, 
‘This is the last time you will ever have tea together,’ 
she tossed her head and said, ‘So much the better.’ 
Can you imagine such appalling heartlessness? I 
tell you candidly, Gascoigne, that you will have your 
hands full.” 

“I think not,” rejoined her visitor; “not in the 
sense you mean — I suppose you will be leaving be- 
fore long?” 

“Yes, I’m getting rid of all the big things by de- 
grees,” replied the Colonel, “the bullock, bandy, and 
piano and victoria; I advertised them, and got my 
price,” and as he announced this gratifying fact he 
seemed to swell with triumph. It was true that he 
had obtained double their value for his shabby, worn- 
out possessions, and had administered severe disap- 
pointments to various harmless and deluded people; 
in whose nostrils the very name of Wilkinson stinks 
until the present day. 

“I am sending some refreshments with Angel,” he 
continued with a gust of generosity, “hard-boiled 
eggs, lemonade, and biscuits. You will see that I 
get the bottles and basket back from Bombay, won’t 
you — like a good fellow ?” 


ANGEL 


104 

“It will be rather difficult/’ rejoined the good 
fellow, wondering if the avaricious wretch, who. 
grudged the value of a few annas, would also re- 
quire the egg-shells. “But I’ll see what can be 
done.” After a few words respecting luggage, labels, 
tickets, and, above all, an early start, the men parted. 
Gascoigne strolled back to his quarters, a prey to 
some anxious thoughts. What passion was em- 
bodied in the child’s puny embrace, and was it to be, 
as Shafto predicted, a millstone about his neck as 
long as ever he lived? There was no blinking the 
fact, that he had accepted a serious charge. Angel 
was totally apart from other little girls of her age 
who cared for chocolates and dolls. She was only 
interested in human puppets, in the serious things of 
life, her feelings and emotions far transcended her 
years. She was a child in a thousand, for good or 
evil. Clever, resolute, unscrupulous, secret, yes, she 
was all that, but she was also devoted, unselfish, and 
faithful. 

Her future would be a matter of profound anxi- 
ety ; fortunately the thread of her fate lay in no hand 
save his own. 


CHAPTER XIII 


ANGELA'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED 

Lady Augusta Gascoigne was the daughter of a 
marquis, the widow of a baronet, and our little 
Angel’s grandmamma. She lived in a small house 
in Hill Street, with her daughter Eva, a plain, awk- 
ward, distressingly shy woman of seven-and-thirty, 
who remained on her parents’ hands as a hopelessly 
unmarketable article, when her two younger sisters 
had made brilliant matches, and covered their chap- 
eron with glory. But Eva’s sole suitor was an 
ineligible, who had been dismissed with indignation 
and contumely, and as Miss Gascoigne disliked soci- 
ety and dress, she had subsided into genteel obscu- 
rity — her mother’s housekeeper and drudge. 

Lady Augusta was blessed with an iron constitu- 
tion and the vigor of perpetual youth ; with her slen- 
der figure, well-poised head, and active movements, 
she appeared at a little distance to be about thirty, 
albeit the remorseless Peerage stated her years to be 
three-score. She wore her clothes with grace, em- 
ployed a French maid — well versed in ‘hhe art of 
beauty” — and got all her gowns in Paris. She 
patronized the turf, the theatre, and the most popu- 
lar foreign Spas; her supper and roulette parties 
were renowned. She carried on her correspondence 
by telegram, and lived in a perpetual whirl. Her 
ladyship still retained the remains of considerable 
beauty; her nose was delicately chiselled (and came 


io6 


ANGEL 


out well in her photographs) ; her eyes were blue, 
very quick, and rather closely set together ; her hair, 
which had once been red, had faded to a pale sandy 
shade, and was marvellously crimped and curled — 
and matched. She was exceedingly vivacious, 
cheery, and popular, always well-dressed, always 
well posted in the earliest news, the newest story, and 
the coming scandal, and men thronged around Lady 
Augusta like flies about a pot of honey. She was 
constantly in evidence ; her comings and goings, her 
little dinners and race parties were faithfully re- 
corded. She was smart, her friends were smart, her 
turn-out was smart, and when she appeared at 
church parade ^‘wearing her sables,” or at the opera 
‘‘wearing her diamonds,” or merely driving down 
Sloane Street with “a bunch of violets tucked into 
her coat,” were not all these doings chronicled in the 
Society papers ? 

Lady Augusta was thoroughly satisfied with her 
surroundings and herself, and put all painful 
thoughts, such as the memory of her two dead sons, 
far from her. She was entirely without heart or 
sympathy, and turned her back on sickness, suffer- 
ing, and all disagreeables. She was quick to seize 
on, and enjoy, every passing pleasure, and declared 
herself a philosopher — but people who disapproved 
of this callous and volatile lady called her by another 
name. 

Immediately after the death of Mrs. Wilkinson, 
Philip Gascoigne wrote to Lady Augusta, and in- 
formed her that he had undertaken the charge of 
her granddaughter, and if not actually requiring her 
sanction, at any rate deferring to her opinion, and 


ANGEL’S WINGS ARE CLIPPED 107 

asking advice respecting the child’s education. To 
this announcement, Angel’s grandmamma replied 
by the following mail, declaring that she had hith- 
erto been under the impression that Tony’s child had 
died in infancy, and that whilst she warmly ap- 
plauded Philip’s benevolence, she failed to feel the 
faintest interest in the offspring of the late Mrs. 
Wilkinson, and that any authority that might be 
supposed to lie with her, she transferred to him with 
all her heart. Her ladyship went on to say that he 
was a bold man to saddle himself with a girl of nine ; 
born and brought up in India, and that his wisest 
course would be to send her to some cheap hill 
school, or convent out there, when, later on, she 
could become a governess or a nun. When was he 
coming home, and when was he going to marry? 
With a few items of society gossip, the letter was 
concluded by his affectionate Aunt Augusta. A 
more cool and heartless epistle the recipient had 
never perused. As soon as he had mastered its con- 
tents, he tore it into little pieces across and across, 
and tossed it into the paper basket — even Colonel 
Wilkinson was not more anxious to repudiate the 
child than her own grandmother. 

By this time the friendless little waif had arrived 
in England safely, and one of her early letters will 
best describe her impressions. It was written over 
three sheets of foreign paper, with much underlin- 
ing, scratching out, and bad spelling. 

‘'Tenterden House, Wimbledon. 

“My dear Phil, — I sent you one letter from 
Suez, and I now write this from school which I hate. 


ANGEL 


io8 

and every moment I wish I was back in your veran- 
dah playing with the dogs, and mending your soks. 
This is a half-holiday and instead of going to the 
hokky I am scribbling to you. I have so much to 
tell you. First of all about Mrs. Dawson, she was 
middling kind to me on borde ship but I ran all 
messages and sowed buttons on her boots, and 
brought her brandy when she was very sick. All the 
time I was making up my mind to tell her about the 
dresses, I hated to have to do it, but I felt that she 
ought to know and not have to wonder all her life. 
So one day when she was awfully ill and week, lying 
back with her eyes shut, some voice inside my head 
said Do it now, now is the time, she cannot beet you. 
And I said, Mrs. Dawson I am going to make your 
mind easy, it was I who cut up all your dresses. I 
am very sorry, they were beautiful, and if I could 
give them back now I would. I’ve nothing to give 
you to make up with, but my gold bangell, the only 
nice thing that I have cousin Phil, and that you gave 
me; so I took it off, and offered it to her. She had 
opened her eyes ever so wide, and at first looked 
quite stupid and queer; then she got very red and 
fierce and wriggled up and panted for breath. At 
last she said only you are a little orfan I don’t know 
what I would do with you, land you at Malta I be- 
lieve. There’s your bangell and she flung it out of 
the port hole, and said now tell me you little feend 
what you did it for. And I told her the truth that 
it was to punish her for her unkindness to my mum- 
my, and this made her quite crazy. She jumped up, 
and took me by the shoulders and turned me out of 
the cabbin. She never speekes to me now, but she 


ANGELAS WINGS ARE CLIPPED 109 

has told everyone, and no one ever talks to me, and 
one child said go away you little cat my mama says 
I am not to allow you to come near me you ought 
to be in Jale. So I did not gain much by telling the 
truth that time you see. I lost all my friends and my 
dear dear bangell. This school is a big red house 
with long passages and great bair rooms and a bell 
rings for everything, getting up prayers lessons 
play. Oh I do hate that bell. There are forty girls 
and I am not the youngest only the smallest in the 
lowest class. Miss Morton thinks me dreadfully 
bakward, and so I am, except in sowing, but she 
was surprised to hear that I had read Vanity Fair 
and Byron’s pomes and could say Shelly’s skylark by 
hart. The other girls are very prim, some tell lies as 
bad as Anima any day, some are greedy, as greedy as 
Pinky, some are very nice, but they all think me odd 
and wild. I like to make them stair, so I jabber 
Hindustani and crack my finger-joints. I have no 
friends here except the second housemaid the cat and 
the drill serjant. He says I am made of yres, and he 
has been in India but only in Madras. I have been 
in lots of skrapes already dear Phil I dont believe I 
am suitable for skool, I’de much rather have lived 
with you, and had a pretty young governess like 
Miss Dove who teeches embroidrey. There are 
some pretty girls too, they all think me so ugly, but 
I dont mind. Give each of the dogs a kiss from me 
and three to Sally just in the middle of her 
nose, and tell the bearers little girl I have not for- 
gotten her, and tell Toady Dodd I am learning 
french and german and dancing and am going to be 
akom — clever, I cant spell the big word, it will vex 


no ANGEL' 

him awfully. Be sure you write me long long long 
letters, you cannot think how I watch the clock on 
male days. If you forget me, I pray that I may take 
small pox and dye, — I am every yours truly, 

‘Angel.” 

But Angel was not forgotten. Some description 
of letter found its way into her eager hands, two out 
of four mail days. Her quivering white face, as the 
letters were distributed, caused a pang of pity in the 
hearts of the womenkind who witnessed it. Angel’s 
feelings were ten years in advance of her age and 
her associates. As weeks and months went on, she 
began to spread her short wings, and to evince her 
personality, and was presently notorious as the most 
idle, clever, mischievous, and unruly girl in the whole 
school. She could learn, she had unusual capabili- 
ties, but she much preferred playing tricks, scrib- 
bling poetry, and affording unlimited fun to her 
class, among whom, thanks to the freshness and au- 
dacity of her ideas, she assumed the position of ring- 
leader and queen. She received punishment with 
the most staggering sang-froid. What was to be 
done with a child who did not mind being sent to 
bed, rather liked dry bread than otherwise, and 
heartily enjoyed her own society? Her example 
was spreading like an epidemic among the juniors; 
idleness, daring feats, and flat disobedience were 
the fashion since the Indian child had introduced 
them. At last Miss Morton sent for the culprit, and 
interviewed her in her own sanctum, a room that 
had witnessed not a few tears and scenes. Miss 
Morton was a clever, handsome woman of forty, ad- 


ANGEL’S WINGS ARE CLIPPED 1 1 1 

mirably fitted for her position. All her girls looked 
up to her, not a few loved her; her influence bore 
fruit in many and many a future home. 

When the slight fair child in deep mourning was 
ushered in, and surveyed the room and its occupants 
with critical blue eyes, she said : 

‘Little Angela Gascoigne, you may sit down,’^ 
Angela took a seat, and sedately folded her arms. 
This action, did Miss Morton but know, portended 
mortal defiance. 

“Angela, you are old and intelligent beyond your 
years,'’ continued her teacher ; “you are not yet ten, 
but you have seen as much of life as many girls of 
eighteen.” 

Angela’s eyes complacently admitted the fact. 

“I therefore talk to you, as if you were almost 
grown up,” resumed Miss Morton. Angela inclined 
her head gravely in acknowledgment of the compli- 
ment. “I must confess, that although you have 
read the most advanced literature, your mind is pure 
and child-like. On the other hand, in your small 
way, you are an anarchist, you rebel against every 
law. What do you propose to do with your life? 
You have influence, you have brains, have you de- 
cided to grow up an ill weed, and to do as much 
harm as you can?” 

No reply. Angela gazed at the flowers, the water- 
colours, the clock, finally into Miss Morton’s eyes. 

“Angela Gascoigne,” she continued, “answer 
me.” 

“No,” breathed Angel in a quick whisper. 

“Very well, then bear in mind that you will have 
to change your ways; you must work as do other 


I 12 


ANGEL 


girls, conform to the school rules. You have been 
endowed with gifts that are uncommon, and yet you 
only misuse them, in order to make your companions 
as idle and reckless as yourself. Unless you under- 
take to improve, and give me your word that you 
will show a good example for the future, I shall be 
obliged to write to your guardian, and ask him to 
remove you at once.” 

Angel’s face grew pale, her eyes looked black, and 
tragic. 

“I hate school !” she burst out, passionately. 

“In that case, you may be sure that school will 
hate you,” was the prompt rejoinder, “and the 
sooner you leave it the better. But why do you hate 
school ?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What a silly answer for an intelligent girl ! Then 
I can tell you; the reason is, because you are unac- 
customed to rules, and regularity; it is a different 
life to the one you have led. I am aware that you 
are an orphan. Tell me, dear child,” now leaning 
towards her, “do you love no one in the whole world, 
not even yourself? Come — won’t you speak to me?” 
she pleaded very low. 

“Yes,” rejoined the child, straightening her little 
figure, “I love Philip.” 

“You mean Mr. Gascoigne, your guardian?” 

Angel nodded, and her face worked, despite her 
precocious self-control. 

“Then don’t you think he will be very sorry to 
hear that you refuse to accept any of the advantages 
he has provided for you? I know that he hopes 
to see you an accomplished girl, and you can easily 


ANGELAS WINGS ARE CLIPPED 113 

learn if you please. Don’t you think it will grieve 
him when I am compelled to say that I cannot keep 
you among my pupils — because of your idleness; 
that with your intensely strong individuality, you 
influence them for ill, and I am obliged to remove 
a bad example from among them?” 

“Are you going to write — this — to Philip?” cried 
Angel, with a gesture of horror. 

“Yes, and at once, unless you will promise me 
that it is not necessary.” 

“I will promise anything — to please him.” 

“Then address yourself to your lessons — ^begin 
to-day — put away your foolish impish tricks, 
Angel,” urged her companion ; “your success lies in 
your own hands. Don’t you think it will be much 
better for your guardian to be proud of you than 
to hear you are expelled?” 

“Does that mean sent away in — disgrace?” 
stammered the child with characteristic directness. 

“Yes, but I see that you have made up your mind ; 
and, instead of being a trial to myself and others, 
you can, and will be, a help. You have some one to 
please, some one to surprise, some one to whose 
coming you can look forward — have you not 
thought of that ?” 

“Oh, I am always thinking of that,” rejoined 
Angel, impetuously, and, to Miss Morton’s amaze- 
ment, she wept, as she faltered, “I have only Philip 
in all the world. I would rather die than that he 
should think — badly of me — I will try, yes, I will 
work. Oh, I never dreamt of Philip. Tell me what 
I am to do, and I will do everything to please him 


ANGEL 


114 

and surprise him when he comes home. — Yes, and I 
wish to please you too.’^ 

Then Miss Morton took the little rebel in her 
arms and kissed her tenderly, and Angel quietly sub- 
mitted to her caress; since her mother died few 
women had kissed her. From that hour, she won 
the child’s heart. 

Tea was brought in, and the teacher and her pupil 
had a nice, long, comfortable talk about India. Angel 
gave her companion many fresh views of the na- 
tives of Hindustan, and the sun went down upon 
another of Miss Morton’s conquests. 

In a short time, the weird-faced, wiry little Anglo- 
Indian had made extraordinary progress, she 
worked conscientiously and incessantly — to please 
Philip. 

Her letters were a source of surprise and em- 
barrassment to her guardian, written in a clear, 
small hand, with unexceptional orthography; they 
breathed a spirit of passionate attachment, a selfless 
love, that was inexhaustible. 

And what had he to offer in exchange for this 
dear child’s single-hearted devotion? Nothing but a 
trivial, and lukewarm, affection. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Philip's love aeeair 

Philip Gascoigne, whom this history chiefly 
concerns, was the only child of a distinguished offi- 
cer who late in life had prevailed on a beautiful and 
charming woman to accept his gallant heart and 
honorable name. General Gascoigne had settled 
down in a fine old manor house in the heart of Kent, 
and there turned his sword into a ploughshare, 
which latter implement, according to his old club 
comrades, had dug his grave. He died when his boy 
was nine years of age, having survived sufficiently 
long to imbue the little fellow with some of his own 
high ideas of truth and honour, discipline and self- 
command. Within a short distance of “Earlsmead" 
Manor was Earlsmead Park, the stately home of the 
Craven-Hargreaves. Venetia Gascoigne and Mary 
Hargreaves had been schoolfellows and were close 
friends, and little Philip grew up almost as one of 
the Hargreaves family, which consisted of two fine 
manly boys, and a girl named Lola — a child with a 
cloud of frizzy bronze hair, and a pair of irresistible 
dark eyes; she was the youngest of the three, and 
the spoiled darling of the household. Mr. Craven- 
Hargreaves was an agreeable, dapper little gentle- 
man, who had been in debt ever since he left Eton, 
and was existing (and more or less enjoying life) 
on the forbearance of his creditors. He was rarely 
at home, save in the shooting season, and the bur- 


ANGEL 


1 16 

then of the family cares fell on his wife’s graceful 
shoulders. The boys had to be sent to school, and 
the pro's and cons connected with this outlay cost 
their mother many anxious hours. Philip Gascoigne 
preceded them to Harrow, there being no question 
of expense regarding his education, for when his 
father died, honoured and regretted, he left behind 
him the best traditions of a soldier and a gentleman, 
he also left an unexpectedly large provision for his 
family. Philip was three years older than Lola, and 
had been her bond slave ever since she could walk 
alone. It was always “Phil and Lola” who were 
partners in games, forays, excursions, and scrapes. 
What halcyon days those were, when the eldest of 
the quartette was but twelve; and everything they 
entered into was a pure and unalloyed delight, from 
nutting, and fishing, and cricket, and riding, to play- 
at robbers and smugglers in the woods, making fires 
and roasting apples, potatoes — also, sad to relate, 
blackbirds and thrushes — returning home grubby, 
weary, and happy, with but scant appetite for 
schoolroom tea. One day Philip and Lola, who had 
been despatched on an errand to the village, sur- 
prised some boys who were drowning a puppy in a 
pond. Philip instantly interfered to save it, tore off 
his jacket and swam to the rescue. Subsequently, 
all dripping like a water-god, he had fought Bill 
Lacy, of the ‘‘Leg of Mutton Inn,” and had thrashed 
him soundly, whilst Lola stood by with the shivering 
puppy in her arms, alternately screaming encourage- 
ment and defiance. Then when the bruised and 
bleeding victor turned to her, for his jacket, and his 
meed of praise, she had rewarded him in her own 


PHILIP’S LOVE AFFAIR 117 

impulsive fashion — she kissed him then and there 
before all the boys in Earlsmead village. It was an 
unseemly and indecent spectacle in the eyes of Mrs. 
Grundy (who lived over the Post Office), Miss 
Craven-Hargreaves, of the Park, acting as backer 
in a street fight, and awarding as prize her kisses. 
It was true that she was but eight years of age and 
her champion eleven, and consequently the misde- 
meanour was suffered to pass. Some said she was 
a fine courageous little miss ; others, that she was a 
bold piece, who would come to no good yet, but all 
agreed that she had plenty of pluck, and would 
sooner or later marry the General’s boy. 

Ji« :jc ^ 5|s 

When Lola was seventeen — and oh! what a fas- 
cinating sweet seventeen — Philip found his tongue, 
and they became engaged. Contemporary matrons 
lifted their hands in horror. A lad of twenty, who 
had only just left Sandhurst ! But other far-seeing 
and less ambitious individuals pointed out that 
young Gascoigne was a fairly good match, he must 
succeed to at least a thousand a year, and expecta- 
tions, whilst the Hargreaves might expect the bai- 
liffs at any moment. 

Within the next twelve months Philip lost his 
mother — whom he worshipped; even Lola had not 
disturbed her from her niche — and the long impend- 
ing crash came at the Park. Mr. Hargreaves fled 
with a portmanteau to the south of France — his plea 
was health — and left his wife to face the storm 
alone. The storm developed into a typhoon, a tem- 
pest of howling creditors; mortgages were fore- 
closed, the park was let to graziers, and, as a final 


ANGEL 


ii8 

climax, there was a sale — an auction, at the house 
itself. The family pictures, portraits by Gains- 
borough, Raeburn, and Romney, went to the high- 
est bidder. The treasured silver and tapestries, as 
well as carriage and horses, were scattered far and 
wide. After a storm — a calm — the Hargreaves 
boys obtained commissions, the Park had found a 
tenant, Mrs. Hargreaves and Lola went abroad, and 
Philip Gascoigne, now a full-blown sapper, was de- 
spatched to Gibraltar. He and Lola corresponded 
faithfully. They were to be married when he was 
four-and-twenty, and already he was collecting rugs, 
Moorish trays, and old carpets suitable for a lady’s 
drawing-room, when he received a letter from Lola 
to say that her father was once more in difficulties, 
frightful difficulties; he had been gambling on the 
Stock Exchange, hoping to recoup his fortune, and 
had had every penny of his own (as well as other 
people’s pennies) swept away. Philip wired to place 
all his available funds at Lola’s disposal; but what 
was a mere five thousand pounds, when the deficit 
amounted to ten times the sum? Mr. Hargreaves 
did everything on a grand scale. He was a born 
gambler, it was hereditary; his grandfather had 
once lost thirty thousand pounds, after playing two 
nights and a day, and sitting up to his knees in cards. 
His worthy descendant had gone even more rapidly 
to work, staked all on a ‘‘chance” and lost — lost the 
estates which had been in the family since the reign 
of Edward the Fourth — lost his head — his hopes — 
his honour. 

The next mail brought still heavier news to a cer- 
tain good-looking subaltern in barracks at Gibraltar. 


PHILIP’S LOVE AFFAIR 119 

Lola wrote formally to dissolve her engagement. 
She was about to marry Mr. Reuben Waldershare, 
one of her father’s creditors, who would cancel his 
debt, and buy back Earlsmead. Thus she saved her 
parent, and averted ruin from her people. Mr. Wal- 
dershare was enormously rich and generous. 

Philip succeeded in obtaining leave on urgent 
private affairs that same hour, and journeyed to 
England that same night. 

* J|e 3|£ j|c s|c 

The Craven-Har greaves had taken a house in 
London for the season. At four o’clock in the 
afternoon Gascoigne presented himself at 146 
Mount Street, and inquired for Miss Hargreaves. 
The man — who was not an Earlsmead servant, and 
knew not Master Philip — said : 

“Yes, sir. Miss Hargreaves is at home. Who shall 
I say?” and he preceded the visitor up the stairs, 
and ushered him into a pretty green and white draw- 
ing-room with a resonant — “Mr. Gascoigne, if you 
please.” 

Secretly, the lady did not please. 

Lola was alone, sitting on a low sofa, with her 
back to the light, and surrounded by morocco and 
velvet jewel-cases. She was dressed in a white 
gown, and wore a large picture hat, her gloves and 
parasol lay on a chair near her, and in her hands 
she held a row of great pearls. A tea equipage 
waited, the spirit-lamp flamed, and Lola’s toilette 
betokened careful thought. The room was fragrant 
with exquisite La France roses, an arm-chair was 
drawn up invitingly near the sofa — evidently some 


120 


ANGEL 


one was expected, but obviously that some one was 
not Philip Gascoigne. 

“Philip,’' she almost screamed, as the door closed 
and she rose to her feet, her face white to the lips, 
''what has brought you ?” 

“You can easily guess,” he replied, as he came 
forward ; “your letter.” 

“Yes — of course,” and she held out both her 
hands; “but, oh, why did you come? — it only makes 
it harder.” 

“You are talking in riddles,” he answered sharply. 
“I want you to tell me the truth — face to face. Why 
do you wish to break off our engagement? Why 
does my return make anything worse 

“Because — seeing you brings everything back — 
and I am going to marry Mr. Walder share.” 

She turned away and averted her face to hide her 
emotion. 

A long silence followed this announcement, and 
at last Philip said : 

“Well, I don’t suppose anything could be worse 
than that!” 

As he spoke, Lola sank back on the sofa, and 
stealthily displaced some of the jewel-cases under 
the big brocade cushions. 

“Will you listen to me?” she said piteously. 

“Oh, yes, I am here to listen. I have come a thou- 
sand miles since Monday to listen — and to speak.” 

“Phil, when you hear all you will be twice as sorry 
for me as you are for yourself. Do you know that 
we are ruined?” 

“I gathered as much,” he replied gravely. 


PHILIPS LOVE AFFAIR 121 

Father has been gambling on the Stock Exchange 
— he has lost everything. Earlsmead, that has been 
centuries in the family ; and not only that — it is not 
merely ruin — it is disgrace,” and as she spoke, Lola 
put her hands over her eyes. 

^‘Disgrace,” repeated Gascoigne. “It is impos- 
sible.” 

“It is not really father’s doing,” she sobbed. “He 
got mixed up with shady people, and lent them his 
good name — and now it is smirched, or will be — the 
catastrophe is impending — the only door of escape 
is — Mr. Waldershare. He will advance money — he 
will stifle scandal — he is enormously rich ” 

“And the reason for his liberality?” demanded 
Philip in a harsh key. 

“Is here,” replied Lola, laying her hand on her 
breast. “I marry him to save our good name — 
and Earlsmead.” 

“In short, you sell yourself for your family ?” he 
cried. 

“I think you might say — sacrifice myself — for my 
family,” she answered softly, and her eyes were elo- 
quent. 

“And I am also to be sacrificed ?” 

“Always remember that you are free — whilst I 
am bound — for life.” 

“And you are prepared to throw me over, to 
marry a man old enough to be your father?” he 
questioned. 

“Yes; but, after all, what is age! and (home- 

thrust) “your own mother — dear Aunt Venetia — 
did the same.” 


I 22 


ANGEL 


Philip now began to pace the room, whilst Lola 
looked furtively at the clock. At last he came to 
a halt, and said : 

“What does your mother say?” 

“Nothing, poor dear, for she knows. The boys, 
Edgar and Billy, are simply furious with me. They 
have not seen the family skeleton — they think I am 
doing this — because — Mr. Waldershare is fabu- 
lously rich — and they say I have no more heart 
than a sea anemone. Bill declares that I was always 
greedy, and took more than my share of jam and 
the pony, and neither of them will come to the wed- 
ding. They will never forgive me, and neither will 

you ” and Lola buried her face in a cushion, and 

wept — that is to say, drew long, gasping sighs. 

“Listen to me, Lola,” said her lover, authorita- 
tively ; “I have a suggestion to make.” She looked 
up quickly, and dried her eyes with a scrap of lace. 
“My idea is not as mad as it sounds. I have ten 
thousand pounds in the funds. It is my own, and 
yours. Let us pay your father’s most pressing claims 
with this — always remember that it is yours as much 
as mine. I will leave the service, and we will all 
go to New Zealand, you and I — your father and 
mother — and the boys, if they like?” 

Lola sat erect, and stared at him fixedly and 
gasped; but he was too full of his subject, and too 
profoundly in earnest, to notice her expression. 

“You see,” he resumed, “I am a really fair prac- 
tical engineer, and I’ll build our quarters; your 
father and I can farm. There is a splendid breed 
of horses, a fine climate, a fine country; we will 
make a fresh start in life ; we shall all be together — 


PHILIP’S LOVE AFFAIR 123 

what do you say, Lola? If you agree, Fll set about 
the move to-day,” and he confronted her eagerly. 

“What do I say to, emigrating to New Zealand?” 
she repeated, in a queer, choked voice, “to living 
in a back block, and — doing the washing?” Then, 
in a totally different key. “Of course, Td be happy 
— anywhere with you^ Phil, in 'No Man’s Land’ or 
Timbuctoo — your offer is like yourself — it reminds 
me of the time you sold your watch to help Billy 
out of a hole. But this hole is too big — ten thousand 
would be a mere drop in the ocean. Philip,” she 
continued, as she rose and came towards him, “it is 
no use trying to play hide-and-seek with fate. My 
fate is to redeem my father’s name. You are the 
man I love — Mr. Walder share is the man I shall 
marry. Can’t you see it with my eyes? You know 
our home — you are one of us — don’t make it harder 
for me. I must go my own way.” 

“And I am to go to the devil,” he said hoarsely. 

“Oh, don’t talk like that,” she remonstrated; “it 
is not like you 

“I don’t know what I’m like — or where I am to- 
day. In one blow I lose everything.” 

“How?” she inquired. 

“You were everything to me.” 

“And in future I must be nothing but a memory. 
Mr. Walder share has had a hint — a girl told him — 
of our boy and girl attachment. He is desperately 
in love.” 

“So am I,” cried her companion. 

“Desperately jealous.” 

“So am I,” he reiterated. 

“I may never see you or write to you again, Phil ; 


ANGEL 


124 

it will be the best/’ she urged piteously, and never 
had she looked so lovely. “It is terrible for you — it 
is ten times worse for me. Some day you will be 
sorry for me — not now, you are too sorry for your- 
self.” 

She was alarmingly pale and nervous, her eyes 
wandered anxiously to the clock ; nothing that 
Philip could urge would shake her from her purpose. 
She remained as white and as immovable as marble ; 
her decision was irrevocable — the step was irretriev- 
able. She was sacrificing herself for others, and 
“it” — the announcement of the engagement — was 
already in the papers. 

With urgent entreaties to leave her, an impas- 
sioned farewell, and a torrent of tears, Lola sent 
Philip from her presence — and, oh ! the relief, when 
she saw him depart ! As he stood on the doorstep, a 
hansom dashed up, and for a moment Gascoigne 
beheld his supplanter. The man descended heavily, 
a clumsy, elderly individual, with a big nose, bulg- 
ing eyes, and a short grey beard. In a second the 
visitor recognised his rival, a well-set-up, gallant 
young fellow, whose handsome face looked white 
and haggard, a man of attractive personality, in 
short, a most formidable opponent. No, no, he and 
Lola were best apart ; there would be no correspond- 
ence, no old playfellow nonsense, no sentiment. He 
was peculiarly alive to the disparity in his and Lola’s 
age, and set his face as a flint against younger men. 
Mr. Waldershare was in the iron trade; his first 
wife had been a homely body, who had assisted him 
to lay the foundation of his colossal fortune. He 
might almost call himself “the Iron King;” now he 


PHILIPS LOVE AFFAIR 125 

was in quest of an “Iron Queen/’ and that with the 
eye of a keen, practical man of business. She must 
be the very best article on the market ; young, well- 
born, and an undeniable beauty. Lola Hargreaves 
answered these requirements; added to which she 
had a certain amount of indolent ambition, and a 
delicate appreciation of the good things of life. 

It was true that her father was on the verge of 
bankruptcy, and mixed up with a sultry business 
connected with a mine, but his forebears had been 
crusaders, their monuments and deeds were extant 
in print and marble. Mr. Walder share respected a 
fine pedigree — the one thing his thousands could not 
purchase — so he decided to marry Lola Hargreaves. 
That Lola had “a friend,” he was aware; he had 
unexpectedly come face to face with him, a good- 
looking, manly young fellow, he did not propose to 
place himself in competition with a man of half his 
years, so he issued an edict — “Lola must drop young 
Gascoigne,” and Lola obeyed. The interview in 
Mount Street had changed the whole course of 
Philip’s life at one stroke; he had lost friends, sweet- 
heart, home — for Earlsmead would be closed to 
him, and the boys naturally would avoid the man 
their sister had jilted. He exchanged immediately 
into the Indian service, with the stern resolve to woo 
the goddess of war, and to enlist under the standard 
of ambition. By-and-by, as she predicted, he became 
intensely sorry for Lola. He admired her lofty prin- 
ciples, her noble character, her unselfish devotion, 
and she was enshrined in his memory with the lustre 
of a treasure that is lost. 


CHAPTER XV 


LOLA 

Since Angel had left Ramghur the hot winds of 
three seasons had swept over her mother’s grave, 
killed the plants in pots, and defaced the lettering on 
the cheap headstone (Mr. Shafto was in error for 
once. ) The dead woman who lay beneath was abso- 
lutely forgotten, even by her dirzee, who now owned 
a thriving shop in the bazaar. A community fluctu- 
ates in an Indian station more than in any part of 
the Empire, and to the present inhabitants of the 
cantonment, the name of Lena Wilkinson failed to 
conjure up any figure whatever, much less a pretty 
face and an unrivalled toilette. The Ram Gunga 
bridge was complete at last, and Philip Gascoigne 
was free; free to enjoy a year’s holiday in Europe, 
and the weeks and days in Angel’s almanac were 
now crossed off down to the one which had a big red 
circle drawn around it, the date when he was due to 
arrive in London. To do the young man justice, 
after he had called upon his tailor, his first visit was 
to a certain girl’s school at Wimbledon. How dis- 
traite Angel had been all the morning, secretly trem- 
bling with anticipation and agitation ; and her hands 
were as ice, her heart was beating in her throat, as 
she opened the drawing-room door. There stood a 
gentleman in a long frock coat, with a hat in his 
hand. He had Philip’s eyes. Somehow she had al- 


LOLA 


127 

ways pictured him in his khaki uniform or blue 
patrol jacket. 

For his part, when a tall, graceful girl glided into 
the room, he scarcely recognised her. But it was the 
old Angel who flew at him with a cry of “Philip,” 
flung her arms round his neck, and sobbed for joy. 
Then she led him to the window, and there they 
scrutinised one another exhaustively. He was but 
little altered, though there were lines on his fore- 
head, and two or three silver hairs on his temple. 
Angel was naturally the most changed of the two; 
her thin, pinched features ; her white, dried-up skin, 
had given place to the bloom of health and a delicate 
complexion; her blue eyes were no longer sharply 
suspicious, but soft and gentle; and the hard little 
mouth was wreathed in happy smiles. 

Yes — Shafto was right. The child was going to 
be a beauty after all. 

“Let me have a good look at you,” said Gas- 
coigne, he was Captain Gascoigne now ; “I want to 
see if I can find any trace of the old Angel?” 

She coloured, and laughed, as she replied, “No— 
not even a goose quill, or a pin feather. Tve forgot- 
ten every word of Hindustani. I can’t dance or 
crack my fingers, and I hate the sight of curry. 
Well, what do you think of me?” she asked, tossing 
back her hair with a laugh, and a heightened colour. 

“I think you have grown — at least four inches,” 
he responded deliberately. 

“And you have grown grey,” she retorted 
quickly; “I see some grey hairs there above your 


128 ANGEL 

“Then, Angel, he said, “I hope you will respect 
them/’ 

“Always, always,” she promised gaily. “Oh, 
cousin Philip, I began to be afraid you were never 
coming home; I do hope you will think I have 
worked well.” 

“I am sure of that ; I felt immensely proud of your 
sketches, and I have given your swagger tea-cosy 
to Mrs. Gordon.” 

“It was intended for you — and for the old red tea- 
pot,” she protested. 

“Far too smart for that, Angel; and I hear you 
are proficient in French and dancing, and the riding 
master’s best pupil.” 

“Just because I’m not afraid and always take the 
pulling chestnut,” she responded, “and that is only 
an amusement. I’m not good at German or arith- 
metic. People think I am cleverer than I am.” 

“Oh, people do think you clever?” he said with 
affected surprise. 

“Only” (with a blush) “the other girls.” 

. “You and I must have some holidays together, 
Angel, and go up the river, and see the pictures and 
do some matinees. I shall be in London for a couple 
of months.” 

“Only a couple of months,” she exclaimed in a 
tone of dismay, “and how the time will fly — and 
then?” 

“Then I am going to Norway to fish — and now I 
must be returning to town.” 

^ j 1« 5j« ^ jJj sK 

Captain Gascoigne proved as good as his word. 
He frequently came down to Wimbledon and took 


LOLA 


T29 

Angela and one of her schoolfellows to matinees, 
picture-galleries, flower-shows, dog-shows, and 
concerts, gave them tea and ices, and delivered them 
at home ere nightfall. Latterly he invited Angel 
alone, as he became aware that she was excessively 
jealous of his society, grudged every word he spoke 
to her friend, and desired to have him all to herself. 
In spite of her gentle and refined manners, her cul- 
tured accent and docility, he was conscious that be- 
neath that disguise, lived the old impetuous, forcible 
spirit, who loved him with the same fierce love 
which she had lavished upon her mother. The sight 
of this flame, when it occasionally burst out, in a 
word or a glance, seriously alarmed him. He 
had nothing wherewith to meet it but a cool 
affection, and a certain vague pride in the pretty, 
charming child, the delicate rosebud that had de- 
veloped out of a wild little thorn-bush. What he 
could not repay in affection, Philip endeavoured to 
make up in indulgence : as it was, the pair went on 
the river, and to Hampton Court ; he loaded her with 
gifts, and every one of the other girls envied Angel 
her guardian. One misfortune they shared in com- 
mon : neither of them had a home. Angel was com- 
pelled to spend her holidays at school, and he, to 
make his headquarters in rooms at Duke Street. 
Mrs. Craven-Hargreaves was dead, Mr. Hargreaves 
lived in Paris, the boys were abroad, Earlsmead was 
let, and Lola was the only member of the family in 
England. Mrs. Walder share was a notable beauty; 
were not her full-length portraits exhibited in the 
Academy and the New Gallery? She had fulfilled 
her husband’s hopes, and proved to be a wife to 


ANGEL 


130 

dazzle the multitude, a star of the chandeliers, of 
garden parties, of race lawns, and stately receptions. 
Where was the Lola who cooked blackbirds, climbed 
trees, and ran wild? There was no trace of her in 
the capricious beauty who was admired, worshipped, 
and spoiled. 

On a certain May morning when the Row was 
crowded, and the rhododendrons were a blaze of 
colour, as Philip and Angela sauntered onwards, 
they found themselves face to face with a party of 
four — two smart guardsmen, and two brilliant 
ladies. One of these came to a sudden halt, and 
gave a little faint exclamation, as she offered her 
white gloved hand to Captain Gascoigne. 

“Who would have thought of seeing you?^’ she 
drawled. “Are you in England 

“He is in London,” burst out the old Angel with 
an irrepressible flash of Ramghur, for Philip’s 
speech was slow in coming. The other lady tittered, 
and the two men took the measure of this grave 
stranger whom “Mrs. Wal” had distinguished with 
her notice. 

“I came home a month ago,” he said at last. 

“And who is the child?” she continued, in her 
leisurely voice. 

“A little cousin — Angela Gascoigne.” 

“I never knew you had one.” 

“How are they all?” inquired Philip with an 
effort, “your father and the boys ?” 

“Billy is in Egypt and Edgar in India. Haven’t 
you come across him ?” 

“No; I wish I had, but India is larger than you 


LOLA 


suppose. Is your father at Earlsmead he con- 
tinued. 

“No, he lives in Paris by preference. Earlsmead 
is let, and so modernised and changed — you^d hardly 
know it — electric light, white paint, Tottenham 
Court Road furniture. You are horrified, but I 
don’t mind. I shall never see it again — and besides 
I am modern myself,” and she laughed. “Let me 
introduce you to Colonel Danvers.” The men bowed. 
“Captain Gascoigne is a very old friend of mine,” 
she added gaily, “our acquaintance dates from our 
high chairs in the nursery.” As she talked on, An- 
gela stood by, regarding her with close attention and 
a steady stare. A stare which absorbed every item 
of the face before her, the languorous dark eyes, 
fluffy brown hair, delicate complexion, and flexible 
red mouth. She also absorbed a general impression 
of an elegant toilette, with soft lace and rustling 
silk, and drooping feathers, a long glittering chain, 
and the perfume of heliotrope. This was Lola, hate- 
ful, cruel, heartless woman — Lola of the photograph. 

“Where are you staying?” she resumed. “Oh, 
the Rag, I remember, is your club. You’ll come and 
see me, won’t you, Phil ?” 

“Thank you,” he rejoined somewhat stiffly. 

“I’ll look over my engagement book and drop you 
a line. We are blocking up the whole place, I see. 
Good-bye,” and she smiled, nodded, and moved on. 

Angel turned and stared after her. She watched 
the pale lilac gown and black plumed hat as their 
wearer made a majestic progress through the crowd, 
with a nod here, a bow there; at last she stepped 


ANGEL 


132 

into an open carriage, followed by the other lady, 
and was whirled out of the park. 

Then the child seemed to awake from a sort of 
trance, and realised that her attitude was equally 
rude and remarkable. 

“What are you doing, Angel?'’ inquired her 
cousin; “what are you thinking of?” 

“I'm '' and she glanced up at him — his face 

looked white, or was it the glare ? — “thinking, that I 
hate her.” 

“What on earth do you mean ?” he asked sharply. 

“I mean the lady in the black hat, who spoke to 

you — who knew you in the nursery ” rejoined 

Angel in gasps. “I've seen — her before — she is a 
doll — a wicked doll.” 

“You are mistaken, you have never seen her in 
your life, and she is neither a doll, nor wicked. You 
should not say such things,” he remonstrated sternly. 

“But I may think them,” she retorted rebelliously. 

“No, you may not.” 

“What is her name?” she asked, with a kind of 
sob. 

“Mrs. Waldershare — I have known her nearly all 
my life.” 

They walked on for a considerable time in dead 
silence. 

“Are you vexed with me, cousin Phil?” faltered 
Angel at length, and in a faint voice. Her eyes were 
deep with devotion and darkened with tears. 

“No, but I wish you would not take sudden dis- 
likes to people, Angel, and sit in judgment at a mo- 
ment's notice.” 

“I can't help it. I make up my mind, and I like 


LOLA 


133 

and dislike then and there. There is — love at first 
sight.’' 

‘Ts there? Well, you can’t know anything about 
that” 

“No, but I can understand hate at first sight,” and 
she drew a long, intense breath. 

“The sooner you turn that current of thought out 
of your mind the better for yourself, Angel. You 
should only look for good in other people. It always 
pays. Come along now, and let us feed the ducks.” 

With respect to Captain Gascoigne’s own sensa- 
tions, he had been prepared for the encounter ever 
since he had returned to London, and had steeled 
himself to meet his former hancee with true British 
self-possession. Moreover, he had caught sight of 
her at a theatre and dining in a smart restaurant, so 
the first edge of the sharp wind had been tempered. 

In a short time he and Angel were absorbed in 
feeding the ducks, oblivious of their recent little 
scene, and presently they went off to lunch in Picca- 
dilly, and “do” a matinee in the Strand. This was 
not the only momentous encounter that the couple 
experienced; within a month a second was impend- 
ing, which made a still greater impression on them 
both. 


CHAPTER XVI 


GRANDMAMMA 

Three weeks later, on a broiling June afternoon, 
as Angel and her guardian were strolling down the 
shady side of Bond Street on their way to strawberry 
ices, they passed a carriage waiting outside a shop, 
in which was seated a slight, smart lady, with a great 
white feather boa round her neck, a wonderful toque 
on her head, and a tiny dog on her arm. She was 
directly facing them, and as the couple came closer 
she beckoned to Philip imperiously; he approached 
at once, and swept off his hat. 

''Do you mean to tell me that you were going to 
pass me by, Philip Gascoigne?^’ she demanded in a 
high, reedy voice. "Don’t you know who I am ?” 

"Why, of course I do. Aunt Augusta,” he pro- 
tested; "but I did not recognise you at the moment 
— the light was in my eyes. I hope you are well ?” 

"Yes, I’m always well, thank you. I’m only just 
back from Aix. When did you return ?” 

"About two months ago.” 

"And never called — or left a card. Oh, you young 
men of the present day !” 

"I did call, but the house was in curl-papers,” re- 
joined Philip. "I gave my card to an old woman in 
the area.” (He was not enthusiastic about his aunt 
by marriage, between whom and his mother lay a 
great gulf ; Lady Augusta looked with scorn on her 


GRANDMAMMA 


135 

country sister-in-law, who employed a local dress- 
maker, and was a frumpish, prudish, handsome crea- 
ture, devoted to her books, her garden, and her boy. ) 

Lady Augusta’s quick eyes presently travelled to 
Philip’s companion; the painted face behind the 
white veil grew rigid. At last she said, in a strangely 
forced voice: 

need — not ask — who she is. She is — Antony’s 

girl.” 

As she spoke she fumbled for her long-handled 
glasses, and held them to her eyes. Her hand and 
her voice were both shaking as she said, “Come here, 
child.” 

Angel gravely advanced in her most approved 
school manners, and confronted the lady who was so 
curiously inspecting her, with serious eyes. 

“Pray, do you know who I am ?” 

“No, ma’am,” answered Angel. 

“Can you guess?” asked the lady sharply. 

She shook her head and waited. 

“Well then, Pll tell you; I am your grandmother.” 

“Grandmother,” repeated Angel incredulously, 
and her face grew quite pink. She glanced inter- 
rogatively at Philip. Was this lady joking, or was 
she mad? 

“I see you can hardly believe your ears; it does 
seem ludicrous,” said Lady Augusta; “but I was 
married when I was not much older than herself,” 
she explained to her nephew in an aside, “Well, child, 
what have you got to say? I suppose you have a 
tongue?” 

Poor Angel, thus adjured, immediately gave utter- 
ance to the wrong thing. “Are — you my — mother’s 


ANGEL 


136 

mother?’^ she inquired, and there was a note of keen 
anxiety in her voice. 

‘‘Oh dear, no,” rejoined the newly-found relative 
in a tone of fierce repudiation. “I am your father’s 
mother. Lady Augusta Gascoigne; he was my 
youngest son. Philip,” turning to him, “I must have 
a talk with you. Get into the carriage, and let me 
drive you both back to tea.” 

As this was an offer not to be despised, an oppor- 
tunity he dare not let slip — for it might be of some 
benefit to Angel — Captain Gascoigne and his charge 
accepted the unexpected invitation, and the next min- 
ute they were seated in Lady Augusta’s landau. 
Once arrived at Hill Street, she led the way up to 
her drawing-room, and there discovered her daugh- 
ter extended on' the sofa, engrossed in a book. Eva 
at once struggled up awkwardly, letting a large piece 
of coarse knitting roll to the floor. She was a thin, 
high-shouldered woman, with a mass of coarse red 
hair and a droop in one of her eyelids, keenly sensi- 
tive of her own shortcomings, and much prone to 
good nature and good works. 

“So this is what you call working for the Deep Sea 
Mission ?” exclaimed her parent as she rustled across 
the room. “See — I have brought Philip Gascoigne.” 

Philip advanced promptly and took her limp hand, 
and said, “It is ages since we have met, cousin Eva.” 
But she was not listening to him. Her eyes were riv- 
eted on the tall child who followed him. 

“It is Antony’s girl,” explained her mother 
brusquely. “Yes, the likeness is — amazing.” 

Eva’s face worked convulsively. Antony had been 
her favourite brother; he, the flower of the flock. 


GRANDMAMMA 137 

with his gay blue eyes and light-hearted character; 
she, the wretched ugly duckling; yet they had been 
inseparable, and she had cried herself to sleep for 
many nights after his departure for India, full of 
spirits, hopes, and courage. Then had come scrapes, 
debts, his deplorable marriage and his death; and 
now after all these years — fifteen years — he seemed 
to have returned to life in the steadfast face of his 
blue-eyed daughter. For a moment she could not 
speak for emotion ; then she came forward and took 
both of Angel’s hands in hers, and said : 

‘‘Oh, my dear, my dear — I am glad to see you — I 
am your Aunt Eva!” 

“Eva is my second name,” said Angel softly. 
Miss Gascoigne’s white face coloured vividly. 

“And what is your first ?” 

“Angel.” This was another family name. 

Tea was brought in by two men-servants with con- 
siderable circumstance and pomp, and Angel’s little 
worldly heart beat high when she realised that all 
these fine things, the silver, the footmen, the pretty 
pictures and surroundings, belonged to her grand- 
mamma — and her grandmamma belonged to her. 
Meanwhile Lady Augusta talked incessantly to 
Philip, questioned him sharply respecting his service 
and his prospects, wandering away to race-meetings 
and her book on Goodwood, with here and there a 
highly-spiced item of news; but all the time she 
watched her grauddaughter narrowly, her manners, 
her way of eating, sitting, speaking. Fortunately 
Miss Morton’s pupil came forth from that ordeal 
unscathed. Angel, for her part, glanced uneasily 
from time to time at this old young lady, with the 


ANGEL 


138 

pretty slim figure, the pretty fresh toilette, the faded 
eyes and wrinkled hands, the beautiful complexion, 
and the wealth of sandy hair. 

'‘Eva,” said her mother suddenly, “you can take 
this child away to the conservatory and show her the 
canaries. I want to have a quiet chat with Philip 
now ; and you may make each other’s acquaintance,” 
she added indulgently. Miss Gascoigne rose with 
alacrity, and led the way to a small greenhouse 
which jutted out over the back landing, where hung 
various cages of shrill canaries. But the visitors did 
not look at these — only at one another. 

“Dear child, how glad I am to know you!” said 
her aunt, taking Angel’s face between her hands and 
gazing once more into a pair of sweet familiar eyes. 
“I hope we shall often see you. Now my mother 
never told me of your existence. She is a strange 
woman — but I believe she is pleased with you.” 

“I did not know that I had a grandmother — or 
an aunt — until to-day,” said the child. “I am so 
astonished — the girls will be so surprised when I 
tell them I have a grannie and an aunt all this time 
in London. I always thought — grandmothers — 
were different.” 

“Your grandmother is different to most people,” 
granted her aunt. 

“And why has she never asked me here — nor 
written to me — why does she stare at me as if there 
were something odd about me? Is there anything 
odd about me. Aunt Eva.” 

“No indeed, my dear.” 

“There must be some reason — do please tell me — 


GRANDMAMMA 


139 

why I never heard of you till to-day. I am twelve 
years old.” 

“Your grandmother was very much vexed when 
your father married,” explained Miss Gascoigne 
with obvious reluctance. 

“Why ?” came the question, like a blow. 

“Oh, because he was a mere boy, only twenty-two, 
and she did not like your mother. My dear, you 
must never speak of her here,” she continued, low- 
ering her voice till it became a whisper. 

“Do you suppose that I shall ever come to a house 
where I may not speak of my mother?” blazed 
Angel. 

“There, I see you have your father’s spirit!” 
exclaimed her aunt. “He and I were always such 
friends, I nearly broke my heart when he died. You 
will come here, Angel, I know — ^because you would 
like to give me pleasure — you will love me for his 
sake.” 

“Oh, well — perhaps,” acquiesced the girl, to 
whom her father’s name conveyed no impression be- 
yond that derived from a faded photograph of a fair 
youth in a gorgeous uniform. 

“Have I any more aunts or uncles ?” 

“Two aunts — Lady Harchester and Lady Lor- 
raine. You are not likely to meet them — they sel- 
dom come here. You and I are going to be great 
friends, Angel. You must write to me and I will 
write to you — and go and see you — often.” 

Jls * * * 

“Not much of the Shardlow about the child,” re- 
marked Lady Augusta complacently. “Quite a 


140 ANGEL 

Gascoigne, or rather — I see a great resemblance to 
myself/’ 

Philip made no reply. He was unable to agree 
with this opinion, and put his hand to his mouth to 
hide a smile. 

^‘And now I want to ask your plans. What are 
your ideas? So far, I must confess, she does you 
credit.” 

“She does credit to Miss Morton and herself. I 
believe I shall keep her at school till she is eighteen,” 
he answered thoughtfully, “and then try and place 
her with some nice people who will take an interest 
in her and make her happy. Indeed, I am at the 
present moment looking out for some such family 
who will receive her for her holidays; it’s rather 
rough on her to have to spend them at school.” 

“If you mean that as a hit at me, Philip,” said his 
listener, “I do not mind in the least ; my conscience 
is clear. When her father disgraced himself by that 
wretched marriage, he and his were dead to me. 
Still when I saw the child this afternoon, something 
in her expression gave my heart-strings a tug. I 
felt agitated — ^besides the child resembles me — the 
only grandchild that is like me. It will be rather odd 
if, after all, Antony’s girl turned out to be the prop 
of my old age. But I am going too fast, am I not?” 

“Well, I don’t quite follow you — yet.” 

“Look here, Philip,” she resumed briskly, “I am 
willing to receive Angela for her holidays” — this 
was an unexpected concession. “She can come up 
for a week-end at first ; if she pleases me I will give 
her a home — when she leaves school; but on pay- 
ment. I may as well have the money as strangers. 


GRANDMAMMA 141 

My jointure is but moderate, and I have great ex- 
penses. Angela will require a maid, and to be suit- 
ably dressed and taken about and properly intro- 
duced, as befits my granddaughter. What do you 
think of my proposal ?’" 

“I think it is an excellent idea, and I agree to it 
most heartily,” he answered ; “that is, if you approve 
of Angela, and she is happy with you.” 

“Oh, she is sure to be happy with me,” was the 
vainglorious reply; “and of course I shall feel the 
greatest interest in her, and take good care that she 
makes a brilliant match. She shall marry to please 
me” 

If Philip knew anything of Angel, there would be 
two opinions on that subject. 

“She will be a far more congenial companion than 
Eva, who, since her silly love affair with a doctor 
she met at Aix, has been the personification of seven 
wet blankets.” 

“Why did she not marry him?” inquired the 
simple bachelor. 

“Because I put my foot down. A widower with 
two children — a mere nobody, too. Eva declared 
that he was the best, most benevolent and brilliant of 
men, and devoted to her. But that was rubbish ; he 
only wanted her ten thousand pounds.” 

After this visit there were several teas and lunch- 
eons in Hill Street, not a few conferences in the 
drawing-room, and confidences in the conservatory. 
On one of these occasions — when all the prelimi- 
naries had been successfully arranged — Lady Au- 
gusta plumed herself like one of her own canaries as 
she remarked : 


ANGEL 


142 

“It was a lucky day for you, Philip, when you met 
me in Bond Street. I have relieved you of your 
‘young girl of the sea,^ otherwise Pm sure I don’t 
know what would have been your fate — such an im- 
possible position too — you, quite a young man, guar- 
dian to a pretty girl; you would either have had to 
marry her — or get a chaperon.” 

“Oh, I should never have come to that,” he replied 
with unexpected decision. “Angel will be in Eng- 
land, if not with you, with others; and with six 
thousand miles of sea and land between us, surely 
we can dispense with a chaperon.” 

In due time Captain Gascoigne returned to the 
East, via America and Japan, and Angel passed into 
the hands of her grandmother. She grew up and left 
school with sincere regret, and many injunctions 
from Miss Morton, who deplored the departure of 
her favourite pupil, and contemplated her future 
with considerable apprehension. She had heard of 
Lady Augusta Gascoigne as a lively, worldly 
matron, fond of cards, racing, and racketing. What 
a guide and counsellor for a girl of eighteen ! 

“Miss Angel Gascoigne — by her grandmother, 
Lady Augusta Gascoigne,” was a notification in a 
Morning Post, succeeding a March Drawing Room, 
and the “imp” was launched. She came out and en- 
joyed her first season, and was warmly welcomed in 
a set in which the only disqualification was a failure 
to be smart ! 

Angel was not the least afraid of granny, whom she 
alternately amazed, amused, delighted, and defied. 
She reversed the situation of aunt and niece, and was 


GRANDMAMMA 


H3 

Eva’s steady support, confidante, adviser, and idol. 
She made the house gay with her songs, her light 
laugh, her flitting foot, her radiant young personal- 
ity. Her cousins and aunts were electrified when 
they first met ‘‘Miss Gascoigne;” her aunt was almost 
always “Poor Miss Eva.” Their attempts at patron- 
age were easily disposed of; the quick wit and cool 
self-possession of the Angel of Ramghur combined 
with the grace and aplomb of the Angel of Hill 
Street was more than a match for the Harchesters 
and Lorraine girls. Seeing that she refused to pose 
as a mere nobody and a poor relation, they changed 
their point of view and became her sworn allies, ad- 
mirers, and friends. Immediately after the London 
season Lady Augusta and her family left Hill Street 
for Aix-les-Bains. 

J|« >|s sjt 5^ * 

During the time when Angel had been growing 
up and blooming into a beautiful and somewhat 
despotic girl, her guardian and cousin had developed 
into an enthusiastic worker, a would-be Empire 
builder. At first, his duty had been among the canals 
and the distribution of the water supply; he had to 
see that every village received its due share of water ; 
in the slack season he had to superintend works of 
construction and repair. He had no society, and no 
amusements. These years of solitude had a certain 
effect on his character. He spent his time march- 
ing from one canal to another, accumulating stores 
of experience regarding the conditions under which 
the peasants lived ; his work was tedious and monot- 
onous, but Gascoigne was a young man of active 
habits and observant eye; he was never dull, and his 


ANGEL 


144 

character was setting into the solitary mould. His 
manners were a little stern. His feelings were under 
iron control, but he was always tender to ani- 
mals and suffering. From the canals Gascoigne 
was promoted to the frontier, thanks to a little war. 
Here he had distinguished himself so brilliantly 
that he was decorated, and wrote D.S.O. after his 
name. He enjoyed the hardships ; the keen, exciting 
existence, the smell of powder, the chances of life 
and death, stirred his pulses. Indeed, once or twice 
he and death had met face to face ; but he kept these 
encounters to himself, and they were only talked 
about in the men’s tents, or a word was dropped in 
the messroom. He never got into the papers — and 
yet he was known by hundreds as ‘‘Sangar” Gas- 
coigne. 

It happened when the night had closed in rain, and 
rolling clouds blotted out the camp lights, that he 
and a handful had gone back in the dark to look up 
some stragglers, and had beaten off the wolfish Af- 
ghans, and stood by their wounded till dawn and 
relief. It w’as an experience to turn a man’s hair 
white and it turned one man’s brain. Let those who 
know what night brings to the wounded and ‘‘cut 
off” testify if their fears were not well founded? 

The hardships, the horrors, the honours, of a short 
but fierce campaign had left their marks on Philip; 
this and the two years’ solitary canal duty had 
changed him, perhaps, even more in the same period 
than his pretty cousin Angela. 

He was again in the North-West Provinces, re- 
sponsible for a great district, and well worthy of 
responsibility, though but thirty-seven years of age. 


GRANDMAMMA 


145 

He was self-reliant, able, and energetic, and if re- 
served and given to sarcasm, Gascoigne was popular, 
being generous and hospitable to a fault. His bun- 
galow was well appointed ; all that it wanted was 
a mistress (so said the ladies of the station). But 
Philip Gascoigne's thoughts did not lean towards 
matrimony; his tastes were solitary and simple; 
when away on duty or on the frontier, no one lived 
a harder or more frugal life. He was well inured 
to the Indian climate, master of several tongues ; he 
had a capital head for ideas, a mathematical mind; 
his heart was in his work, his profession was his 
idol. Work with him amounted to a passion, and 
had effectually chased love from his thoughts. He 
was one of the men whom luxury and decadence 
had left untouched, and upon whom the executive 
business of the Empire, in its remoter parts, could 
depend. Gascoigne was so good-looking, cheery, 
popular, and eligible that many women spread their 
nets in the sight of that rara avis, an agreeable, in- 
vulnerable bachelor. Over a series of years he had 
successfully eluded every effort to “catch him," and 
kept all would-be mothers-in-law politely at a dis- 
tance. 

By this time he was given up as a hopeless case, 
and one indignant matron had said in her wrath : 

“Major Gascoigne will let every chance of a suit- 
able wife go by, and when he is in his dotage will 
make a fool of himself by marrying a girl in her 
teens." 

But so far Major Gascoigne was .a long way from 
dotage, or the fulfilment of this disastrous prediction. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE UNEXPECTED 

It was the month of September in the Himalayas, 
when the rains are heaviest, landslips frequent, and 
whole hillsides crumble and slide into the valley with 
a sound of thunder, that Major Gascoigne was sum- 
moned up to Kumaon in order to cope with a series 
of disasters. Bridges had been destroyed by racing 
torrents, roads were washed away; such floods had 
not visited these regions for twenty years, so said 
the hill folk, and traflic between the stations of 
Shirani and Chota-Bilat was practically at an end. 
It was not that the roads were impassable, but that 
there were no roads whatever. The common route 
by the river (to reach the so-called staircase) was 
now a boiling torrent, which had risen in its fury 
and torn away pieces of the great cart road, and 
dragged down and swallowed walls, buttress, 
bridges. Under these circumstances, when troops 
were waiting to march, and most people were mov- 
ing towards the plains, transport and traffic were 
paralysed, and loud was the outcry. 

Major Gascoigne had taken possession of the 
engineers’ house, a little building far away from 
road and river, perched high among the rhododen- 
drons over the valley, consisting merely of two 
rooms, verandah and cook-house, and furnished to 
meet the simple requirements of one man. Philip 


THE UNEXPECTED 


H7 

liked the isolated spot, where he heard nothing but 
the crow of the jungle cock and the roar of the water. 
It was one of his favourite halting-places when he 
came up on inspection duty. No cell could be more 
solitary, or absolutely out of the track of the world. 
Here he worked at his book on fortifications, here 
he kept a store of favourite authors, here he was 
happy; it was his asylum — his cave. The cave was 
beautifully situated, and, although it commanded a 
sweeping view of the neighbouring hills and distant 
snows, yet, to the cursory eye, the little brown house 
was almost buried amid rhododendrons, oak and 
tall tree ferns. The last week in September wit- 
nessed many landslips, several accidents, and much 
rain. Since daybreak the “Engineer Sahib” had 
been personally superintending the damming of a 
fissure and the construction of a temporary bridge. 
Towards three o’clock in the afternoon, tired, mud- 
stained, and extremely hungry, he set his pony’s 
head towards home. After a long detour they scram- 
bled up the slippery, greasy path, crossed with great 
tree-roots, and at last reached their destination. 

Here Gascoigne gave the pony to his attendant, 
and called out impatiently, ‘‘Qui hye.” 

Instead of the usual prompt answer to this sum- 
mons, the glass door into the verandah opened very 
slowly and a grey-haired ayah, in a red cloth jacket, 
appeared and signed to him to be silent. But Gas- 
coigne was not a man to take orders from strangers 
in his own house, and he walked up the steps, mo- 
tioned her aside, and entered the sitting-room. 

There on the shabby cane lounge was extended a 
fair-haired woman — a mere girl, with one hand un- 


ANGEL 


148 

der her head, the other hanging limply down, fast, 
fast asleep. A little cloth jacket was thrown over 
her feet, a hat with wet feathers lay on his writing- 
table among all his most sacred papers, and a damp 
umbrella dripped steadily in a corner. 

Evidently a traveller who had mistaken his cave 
for the Dak Bungalow. This was Gascoigne’s first 
idea. He looked at her a second time, and it struck 
him that there was something familiar in the shape 
of the face, the pencilled dark brows, the delicate 
nostrils, and he experienced a sudden spasm of hor- 
ror as he realised that he was contemplating — An- 
gel ! Angel, whom he believed to be established with 
her grandmother in Haute Savoy, from whom he 
had received a cheery letter quite recently. Unques- 
tionably her talent for executing the unexpected was 
supreme. It bordered on the miraculous. He sud- 
denly recalled Shafto’s prophecy that “her future 
course was incalculable,” as he closed the door softly, 
and, beckoning the ayah to a distance, said : 

“Where have you come from?” 

“Bombay, sahib,” was her prompt reply. “Missy 
and one lady engaged me two days ago, the other 
mem-sahib going up country. At junction, my missy 
asking there, and people telling sahib no in Marwar, 
sahib in jungle and all roads gone,” she paused to 
take breath, and resumed, “but that missy coming all 
the same, plenty bad way, no littley small path for 
one dog, missy never fraiding, she only laugh and 
tell coolie men to go on — go on — I plenty fraiding, 
missy only wanting to come to sahib — soon — soon 
— quick.” 

The sahib impatiently motioned the woman away. 


THE UNEXPECTED 149 

and she swiftly disappeared in the direction of the 
cook-house. Here was a pretty business, a nice di- 
lemma in which Angel had placed him. Major Gas- 
coigne, as he sat on the steps, an outcast from 
his own retreat, was in what Billy Hargreaves would 
have termed one of his ''cold” passions. He had 
looked upon Angel as a solved problem — a charge 
made over to her grandmother on payment of so 
much per annum. She sent him charming, vivacious, 
and, yes, affectionate letters — such as a girl would 
write to an uncle or a brother; some day he ex- 
pected she would marry (according to her grand- 
mother, her admirers were as the sand of the sea in 
multitude), and then the last fraction of responsi- 
bility would fall from his shoulders. 

Oh, why had he ever been such a cursed fool as to 
take the child at all? he asked himself bitterly, but 
when he recalled her mother’s eyes — those eloquent, 
dying eyes, his heart told him the reason. He must 
get rid of Angel at once, but how, when, and 
where? The bearer now humbly craved his atten- 
tion. He assured him that he had done all in his 
power to "keep the missy out;” as he spoke his ex- 
pression became so tragic that Gascoigne was com- 
pelled to smile. As well as his recollection served 
him, should that Miss wish to enter, "to keep her 
out” was a hopeless task. He desired his somewhat 
ruffled factotum to prepare dinner, to pitch his tent, 
and make him some sort of shakedown; "the Miss 
Sahib” would occupy the bungalow that night, and 
leave early in the morning. 

It would be impossible to take Angel away that 
evening; the roads were unsafe, and there was 


1 50 ANGEL 

another storm brewing. As he stood watching the 
clouds rolling up, and listening to the rumble of 
distant thunder, his mind groping for some means 
of speeding this most unwelcome ‘‘Angel in the 
house,” a slight movement caused him to turn his 
head. There was his ward in the doorway, and 
against the dark background she stood forth a vision 
of youth, beauty, and joy. Yes, although her hair 
was tumbled, and she was obviously but half awake, 
Angela was a sight to make an old man young ! 

She came quickly towards him with outstretched 
hands. No, no! he was certainly not going to kiss 
her. 

“Oh, Phil!” she exclaimed. “Dear old Phil — 
of course you are horrified to see me/' and she looked 
up with lovely laughing eyes into his grave face. 
“But I really could not stand granny any longer — 
her gambling, and her friends, and her behaviour 
were quite too much for me. I just made up my 
mind at a moment’s notice — and came away. When 
I explain everything, I am as certain of your ap- 
proval as that I am standing here.” 

“Had you better not sit down?” said her host, 
dragging forward a verandah chair. 

“Thank you,” sinking into it and looking about 
her. “How perfectly delicious it is! Well, to go 
on with my story — I said to myself, why endure this 
dreadful life — when I can always go to Philip ? He 
is my guardian, not grandmamma — so I sold my 
diamond ring for ninety pounds, and came straight 
off. I did not wire or write, in case you might forbid 
me to start. Now Pm here, of course, you cannot 
send me back. Now Pve come such a long, long 


THE UNEXPECTED 


151 

way to find you — oh, do look a little bit glad to see 
me,’' and she leant forward and laughed. 

Angel was completely at her ease; her manner 
was that of a girl who had had all men under her 
feet. To Major Gascoigne the world had suddenly 
become topsy-turvy ; this was Angel’s house, he was 
the unexpected interloper, the runaway ward — and 
her attitude represented gracious welcome. 

“Yes; but, Angel,” he began, making a vague 
effort to withstand this momentary vertigo, “al- 
though I am glad to see you, I am not pleased to see 
you — here.” 

“But why not?” she asked with an air of bewil- 
dered injury. “This is my native land — you are my 
legal guardian. I belong to you, and not to grand- 
mamma. Oh, dear cousin Philip, do be nice. We 
have not met for six years — think of that — do not 
look so stern — please be glad to see me. Please,” 
urged this audacious and distracting creature, with 
the indescribable eyes and smile. 

Well, after all, Philip Gascoigne was only a man. 
He succumbed, he relaxed, he threw dull care and 
dull disapproval from him — figuratively tumbled 
them both over the khud. 

“You must be starving,” he said; “what would 
you like to have?” 

“Tea, please,” was the prompt reply; “and I will 
make it. It will be like old times. I suppose the 
dear red teapot is no more?” 

“Strange to say, it still exists, and is here.” 

“Then I shall be glad to meet it immediately ; and 
remember, I shall never forgive you for giving the 
tea-cosy to that Mrs. Gordon. You don’t know the 


152 ANGEL 

pains it cost, the hours, and the tears, I stitched into 
it — my first piece of fancy work/' 

No doubt the ayah had already ordered tea, it 
was so speedily brought into the verandah. Angel 
made it, and poured it out, chattering all the time, 
whilst the solemn, black, bearded servant watched 
her furtively with shocked but admiring eyes. 
Truly, these white women were handsome, but 
shameless. A quick order in fluent Hindustani 
caused him to start ; the old familiar tongue had run 
to meet Angel in Bombay — in three days it was once 
more her own. 

When tea was over and cleared away the young 
lady placed her elbows on the table, and resting her 
pretty face between her hands, said : 

^T know you are dying to hear all about me — and 
I will tell you." 

“May I smoke?" inquired the master of the 
house. 

“Certainly you may, and I will keep you com- 
pany," was the startling rejoinder, as Angel sud- 
denly produced a pretty silver cigarette-case, held 
out her hand for a match, and proceeded to light up. 

“You must know" — here she blew a cloud — “if 
you did not guess it from my letters, that granny 
and I did not hit it off. Of course my holidays were 
like trial trips, and nothing really to go by ; our boil- 
ers did not explode, and we did not ram one another ; 
but when I left Wimbledon last Christmas, and be- 
came a permanent affliction in Hill Street, it was dif- 
ferent. I was too independent for granny ; I did not 
take to racing, or cards, or the young men of her 
set." 


THE UNEXPECTED 


153 

*‘But they took to you, by all accounts,” interposed 
her listener. 

“Oh, yes ; but I soon let them see that the three- 
tailed Basha — pick up my handkerchief — come when 
you’re called — style they affected to other girls 
would not go down with me. I snubbed them 
severely for a little change, and they liked it; the 
more I snubbed them, the more they grovelled, 
thankful for a word, ready to die for a smile. That 
is the attitude young men should assume towards 
young ladies,” and Angela blew a ring of smoke, and 
watched it with calm approval. “When I came 
away, snubbing was the latest craze — the rage.” 

“It would depend upon who she was,” said Gas- 
coigne. “How would it work if the young lady were 
snub-nosed ?” 

“Oh — that is too difficult a question,” said Angela 
with a gesture of fatigue. 

“Why were you so death on these unfortunate 
youths? Why did they not meet with your ap- 
proval ?” 

“Who could approve of creatures with a quarter 
of a yard of collar, and an inch of forehead, and 
whose only two adjectives were ‘rippin’ and Tot- 
ten’ ?” demanded Angel. “Granny was vexed 
because I would not afford her the glory of a fash- 
ionable wedding, for she looked upon my obstinacy 
as a sinful waste of good matches. I would not 
marry myself,” continued the girl imperturbably, 
“but I got Aunt Eva married — not quite the same 
thing in granny’s eyes ! Oh, she was furious. Her 
match-making fizzled out” — extending her hand 
dramatically — “but mine was a grand success.” 


1 54 ANGEL 

“So Eva married the doctor after all?” 

“Oh yes, an old love affair — lights like tinder,” 
and Angel blew a great cloud of smoke from her 
nostrils. “Aunt Eva was my father’s favourite sis- 
ter, otherwise the butt of the family, because she 
was plain, unselfish, good, and cowardly. Dr. 
Marsh, who attended granny, noted her, admired 
her, and proposed. Eva would have been only too 
madly, wildly happy to say yes, but there was an 
uproar in the house. Granny nearly had a fit. She 
set her sisters on to talk poor Eva to death, and 
Eva submitted and caved in. She was very miser- 
able, just granny’s drudge; when I came to Hill 
Street I soon found that I was to be aunt — and she 
niece. I advised, scolded, lectured, and comforted 
her; assured her that she had her own life to live, 
not granny’s, who had had a very good time. In 
short, I raised the standard of rebellion!” Here 
Angel laughed, and looked over at her companion 
with mischievous and triumphant eyes. 

“And there was war in Hill Street,” said Gas- 
coigne, wondering how he was to deal with this dar- 
ing insurrectionary charge, in whom the elements 
were mixed indeed. 

“Civil war, I should call it,” she responded. “I 
took the poor little love affair in hand and patched 
up the pieces. I scraped acquaintance with Dr. 
Marsh. He is a good man, works among the poor as 
well as the rich, and has a very keen sense of 
honour.” 

Gascoigne now threw away his unfinished cheroot 
and sat forward with folded hands. Was he dream- 
ing, or was he listening to little pig-tailed Angel ? 


THE UNEXPECTED 


155 

‘‘He could not endure snubs/’ she continued com- 
posedly. “He had a modest opinion of himself, and 
had retired into his shell. By the way,” she asked 
suddenly, “am I boring you ? All this interested me 
so keenly that I forget that it may be deadly dull to 
other people.” 

“No — no, pray go on. I am all ears, and keenly 
interested too.” 

“Well, I had a long talk with Dr. Marsh; then I 
met him in the Academy by appointment. I told 
him I wanted him to explain a subject to me; when 
he arrived Eva was with me. They were mutually 
surprised. I told him the ‘subject’ was in the gem 
room — and then — I lost them. Was I not clever?” 
and she laughed like a child of nine. 

“Very,” came the somewhat gloomy assent. 

“Aunt Eva has money of her own; she is past 
forty, quite old. Why should she not choose her 
own life, and have some little happiness before she 
dies?” 

“Why not indeed?” he echoed mechanically. 

“Because she was so yielding, so timid, so old- 
fashioned, so afraid of granny, who used the fact 
of her being her mother — a thing poor Eva could 
not help — as a reason for making her a slave for 
life. But I set her free,” she announced in a clear, 
ringing voice. “Yes, Dr. Marsh was at Aix; he 
married Eva there. I was bridesmaid, witness, 
everything. They went off to spend the honeymoon 
in the Tyrol, and I was left to face — grandmamma.” 

“But you dared not — and bolted — I see.” 

“No, no,” indignantly. “I’m not like that. 
Grandmamma was furious at first, but I talked her 


ANGEL 


156 

round in two days. Dr. Marsh is a gentleman, cul- 
tivated, and presentable. He has a large practice. 
Granny began to see reason and to calm down. It 
was partly over an Italian Prince that we came to 
grief : Granny was so insistent, so shamelessly 
throwing me at his head, I could not endure it. He 
got on my nerves — and so did Aix. The dressing 
four times a day, the baths, the gossip, the gambling. 
I said to myself, I really must get away from all this, 
or I shall develop into a woman like granny. 
Granny can have one of the Lorraine girls to launch 
into life instead of me — she is not half so stiff-necked 
or headstrong.” 

“Are you stiff-necked and headstrong?” 

“Oh, yes, so Miss Morton used to say. A friend 
of mine, Mrs. Friske, heard my groans and lamen- 
tations, and said, ^Why don’t you go out to your 
guardian? He is elderly; your home is really with 
him. India is much better than this.’ We talked it 
all over one night — she is very quick, clever, and 
impulsive — and I thought it out, and made up my 
mind to leave granny. I would not have done it so 
suddenly, but that one evening we had a terrible 

scene, oh ” and she caught her breath sharply. 

“I can never forget the things she dared to say of 
my — mother. We had not spoken of her before. I 
just packed up all my smart French frocks, sold my 
ring, Mrs. Friske took my passage from Marseilles, 
and away we went on board the Arabia. It was all 
so easy. We had a delightful time — lots of nice peo- 
ple coming out — and Mrs. Friske chaperoned me to 
Basaule Junction. In spite of the awful state of the 
hills, I came on straight, the wretched ayah gibber- 


THE UNEXPECTED 157 

ing and screaming behind me, for I particularly 
wanted to arrive before grandmamma’s letter.” An- 
gel drew a long breath, and said, “That’s all — 
I’ve finished. Now it is your turn to speak, cousin 
Philip. Since I am here, what are you going to do 
with me?” and she looked up at him with a gaze of 
amused expectation. 

“I shall take you down to Marwar to-morrow,” 
was his prompt reply, “and as soon as the monsoon 
is over, send you — home.” 

“No, no, no, Philip,” she remonstrated in a piteous 
key. “I won’t go back. I realise now,” putting her 
cigarette into the ash-tray, “that I have been — mad. 
I’d no idea you were so young.” As she spoke she 
faltered a little, and a sudden wave of colour dyed 
her cheeks. It was her first and sole token of em- 
barrassment. “You are not the grey-haired fatherly 
person I expected to see. You were getting grey 
years ago, and I thought — you’d be different. I’ve 
so much imagination — I’ve an excellent memory. I 
remembered how good you were to me when I was 
an odious, friendless child, and I — imagined — that 
you — would be pleased — to have me.” 

Her lower lip quivered as she concluded, and her 
eyes darkened with unshed tears. This was more 
than Saint Antony could have withstood. Philip 
Gascoigne was amazed to hear himself saying — or 
surely a stranger spoke : “Why, Angel, of course I 
am delighted to see you. Your coming has taken me 
aback, that is all ; and I am a hardened old bachelor, 
not at all accustomed to young ladies.” 

“No, nor being turned out of your house into the 
wet jungle,” she supplemented with a watery smile. 


ANGEL 


158 

“If I am not so old as you expected, you are much 
older than I dreamt of. I always seem to see you 
in my mind’s eye with a fair pigtail, and frock just 
reaching to your ankles.” 

“If you wish, I can return to both within the 
hour,” she rejoined with a hysterical laugh. At this 
moment the ayah made her appearance round a 
corner, and said in her whining voice : 

“Gussal tiar. Miss Sahib.” 

“It’s my bath,” she said. “I really must go and 
change. I feel such a grub ever since I left Bombay. 
Au revoir/^ and she sprang up, and left her guardian 
to his undisturbed reflections. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DINNER FOR TWO 

Whilst the young lady was changing her dress 
Gascoigne had another interview with his bearer, ere 
retiring into the damp tent to remove his wet clothes. 

“Look here,” he said, “you must do all you can to 
make the place nice for the Miss Sahib — tidy it up — 
and, I say, isn’t there a lamp-shade?” 

Abdullah assented with solemn complacency. 

“There are no flowers, or dessert, but there’s some 
chocolate — and see that the cook does not spare his 
stores, and has an eye to the ayah and coolies ; they 
have all to be ready for an early start to-morrow.” 
And having issued these orders, he departed to his 
damp quarters, where he experienced exasperating 
difficulties in finding his belongings, which had been 
hurled into the tent pell-mell. He had no looking- 
glass; he was actually obliged to do his tie at the 
back of his silver flask. How a woman upset a 
house! As Gascoigne searched wildly for a hand- 
kerchief, his thoughts were inhospitable — his mental 
expressions impassioned. 

Meanwhile the bearer, thus put on his mettle, 
bustled about with feverish activity; he, like all 
natives, thoroughly enjoyed a crisis, an unexpected 
situation, a novelty, a commotion. He was also full 
of resource, but here his resources were so limited he 
had nothing to draw upon save his master’s ward- 
robe, and he put it under contribution without delay. 


i6o 


ANGEL 


The old lamp-shade was gracefully draped with 
yards of soft red silk — his master’s cummerbund; 
the effect was so splendid and stimulating that he 
brought forth a certain treasured red and gold dress 
sash, and twisted it round the lamp with a quantity 
of beautiful forest leaves. This was the table dec- 
oration, and it looked extremely pretty and elegant. 
A blue military cape covered the deficiencies of a 
table, a plaid railway rug draped the shabby cane 
lounge, Gascoigne’s two most cherished silk ties 
looped back the short window curtains, and when 
the deft-handed Abdul had placed lighted candles in 
every available spot and considered his work crit- 
ically, he felt a thrill of honest satisfaction — the 
warm glow of an artist who beholds his ideal real- 
ised! The result was a transformation, and a 
success. 

When dinner was ready, he went and knocked on 
the visitor’s door ; it opened promptly, and the young 
lady appeared; such a dazzling apparition that Ab- 
dul fell back three paces. Angel had dressed her hair 
elaborately — she abjured a fringe — it was parted in 
the middle, and turned back in great masses, and 
gathered up in a knot low on her neck, with one or 
two rebellious little curls peeping over her forehead. 
She wore a dark trailing skirt, and a white silk and 
lace blouse, with close-fitting lace sleeves. Nor were 
the little decorative touches which add so much to 
a toilette omitted ; she wore turquoise ornaments, a 
picturesque silver belt, and a band of black velvet en- 
hanced the whiteness of her throat. All three items 
gave Angel an impression of “full dress,” and Gas- 


DINNER FOR TWO i6i 

coigne, as he surveyed this dainty vision, mentally 
did homage. 

‘‘I am rather smart — compared to what I was an 
hour ago,’' she said, addressing her host, ‘‘and con- 
sidering that I only brought one small box with me 
— I left my luggage at the Junction, tons of trunks 
— oh, I am so fond of my frocks !” An hereditary 
passion, reflected her guardian. 

(As Angel talked she was furtively scrutinising 
Philip, who had exchanged his wet riding kit for the 
irreproachable white shirt, black tie, and dinner coat 
of the period.) 

“You are dazzling, I admit,” he exclaimed, with a 
smile. “I feel as if I could only look at you through 
smoked glass.” The girl laughed as she seated her- 
self and glanced round. 

“What a transformation scene — how pretty the 
table is! Why, we might be dining tete-d-tete at 
Prince’s, and going on to a theatre. But I remember 
how clever native servants are — how they make, a 
grand show out of nothing.” 

Here Philip recognised with a gasp his wardrobe, 
so to speak, decorating the table — yes, and the room. 

“Especially our troupe,” she continued ; “Colonel 
Wilkinson saw to that.” 

“Have you any news of him?” 

“Oh, yes,” carefully helping herself to salt; her 
hands and wrists were exquisite. “He married again 
years ago, a woman with no end of money. She 
must have escaped from some lunatic asylum ; don’t 
let us talk of him. Let us eat, drink, and be merry.” 

“You won’t get very merry on soda-water,” he 
protested. “Have some claret?” 


i 62 angel 

‘1 never touch it, thank you. Granny said it made 
one’s nose red.” 

*'And so you and Lady Augusta never hit it off 
after all ?” he remarked. 

“No; she was such a Saturday-to-Monday sort of 
grandmother ! Always rushing here, and there, and 
back again, never at home except when she was 
asleep, always ‘showing herself’ somewhere, as she 
called it, always in the movement. I did not mind 
until she began to drag me with her, and insisted on 
showing me. Then she always dressed like my twin 
sister. Pray, what granddaughter could tolerate 
that?” Angel’s expression became tragic, and Gas- 
coigne laughed, quite a gay young laugh. 

‘T assure you that granny has the ditto of this 
very blouse I’m wearing; and,” speaking with in- 
creased energy, “one of the last scenes I had with 
her was to prevent her wearing a white muslin 
gown ; of course, it was drowned in lace, but imagine 
white muslin at sixty-five,” and she gave an ipipa- 
tient and despondent sigh. 

“It might have been seventy in the shade,” acqui- 
esced Gascoigne, ironically. “I’m afraid she must 
have been an immense responsibility. I can sympa- 
thise with you there.” 

“Oh, it was not really that,” and Angel’s voice 
suddenly became the grave utterance of a much older 
woman. Her eyes looked dark and tragic as she 
leant a little forward and said, “It was the closed 
door between us — we never spoke of my mother.” 
Angel communicated this fact as if she were alluding 
to some holy saint, and Philip, the hypocrite, bent 
his head in profound sympathy. “No, never till that 


DINNER FOR TWO 163 

once/’ resumed the girl. “It was the first and the 
last time. Our opinions were so opposed, it was as 
if two furious, long-leashed creatures had been sud- 
denly let loose at one another’s throats.” After a 
little silence, during which she meditatively broke 
up bread, Angel suddenly looked over at her com- 
panion, and said: “Tell me, how do you like the 
way I do my hair now ?” 

Philip gasped mentally, but brought out an ade- 
quate reply. “Immensely — last time you wore it 
down your back.” 

“And so” — here she leant her elbows on the table, 
and locked her pretty hands, and looked over them 
at her guardian, “you are really going to take me 
down to Marwar to-morrow.” 

“I am really,” he answered promptly, “weather 
permitting.” 

“How I hope the weather will not permit. I’d 
a million times rather stay up here in the jungle, the 
real delightful jungle, within reach of white bread, 
the post-office, and hairpins. I could sit and read, 
and dream, and sketch, and ride up and down the 
valleys for months, and be so happy. What a shame 
it is that one cannot enjoy what one likes” 

“Unfortunately we often like what is bad for us,” 
said her guardian drily. 

Angel drew a sigh of assent, and then resumed, 
“We never would have found this place, only for 
one of my jampannis, whose brother is in your ser- 
vice ; he knew the way ; was it not luck ?” 

“Yes,” agreed Major Gascoigne. (But was it?) 

“The road was nil — in places it had slipped a hun- 
dred feet. We just crawled along the precipices 


164 ANGEL 

inch by inch, clinging on to roots and branches, tooth 
and nail.’' 

“I must say it was very plucky of you to come.” 

‘‘Oh, I did not mind a bit,” said Angel carelessly. 
“And so your home is in Marwar?” 

“Yes ; I’m only tip here on duty. There are several 
people you know in Marwar.” 

“Really?” raising her perfectly pencilled brows. 

“Mrs. Gordon, for instance.” 

“Yes, to whom you presented my tea-cosy. I shall 
certainly take it back. Wasn’t she a pretty dark- 
eyed woman, with a horrid old bearish husband?” 

“What a memory you have!” he exclaimed. “And 
there is Shafto.” 

“Who always hated me,” making room for the 
bearer to remove the cloth ; “you cannot deny that.” 
When the bearer had departed she put her elbows 
on the table, and, confronting her companion, said : 

“Cousin Philip, I try to speak the truth to you 
— and I’ll speak it now. I see that in rushing out 
here to you I’ve acted on a mad impulse — worse, per- 
haps, than cutting up Mrs. Dawson’s dresses. I 
don’t stop to think ; I act ; when I shop, I buy what 
I want, and — think afterwards if I can afford it. I 
never count the cost.” She paused for breath. “I 
did not leave grandmamma without good-bye. I 
walked into her room when she was going to bed. 
I wanted to catch the night rapide to Marseilles, and 
said: T’ve come to say good-bye — as I’m off.’ 
'Where to?’ she screamed. 'India,’ I replied. I 
won’t repeat what she said, but — well, she prophe- 
sied evil things. Her prophecy will not come true. 
I am resolved to be prudent, and obedient. I will 


DINNER FOR TWO 


165 

do whatever you wish, but oh ! cousin Phil,” stretch- 
ing out her pretty hands, ‘‘please don’t send me home 
— oh, please don’t!” 

“Very well, then, I won’t,” he replied, little know- 
ing that he had thus sealed his fate; but, thanks to 
the sorceress, he was in a condition of mind in which 
to-day blotted out to-morrow. 

It was an extraordinary experience. Would he 
awake and find he had been dreaming? or was he 
really sitting tete-d-tete in this lonely spot, with the 
most bewitching girl he had ever seen ? As he sat 
endeavouring to focus his somewhat slow ideas — 
perhaps he was too reflective to be quite good com- 
pany — Angela rose and began to walk about the 
room, critically inspecting the contents. 

“I always made very free with your belongings, 
and your house,” she said, “and” — with a laugh — 
“your horse. I see several little things that I remem- 
ber so well,” and she touched them as she spoke. 
“This old battered blotter and ink-bottle, and the 
frame with your mother’s likeness — how sweet she 
looks.” She took up the faded photograph, gazed 
at it for a long time, kissed it, and put it down very 
gently. “I see you have a lot of books — um — um — 
um — Fortifications — Mathematics — how dry I ex- 
cept ‘Soldiers Three’ and ‘Vanity Fair.’ I love 
‘Vanity Fair,’ and, do you know,” turning about 
with the volume in her hand, “I was always a little 
sorry for Becky.” 

“Pooh! she would have sneered at your sympa- 
thy,” rejoined Gascoigne. “She never pitied her- 
self.” 

“No, she despised herself. How I wish Dobbin 


ANGEL 


i66 

had not been endowed with such large feet, other- 
wise I believe he would be almost my favourite 
hero.” 

“Only his feet stand in the way — alas! poor 
Dobbin.” 

“Yes — ah, here you have something modern,” 
opening another book: 

“La seul reve interesse 

Vive sans reve qui est ce. 

Et J’aime La Princesse Lointaine !” 

she quoted ; “what a swing it has ! Why, it is only 
seven o’clock,” she announced, with one of her sud- 
den changes of manner. “What can we do to amuse 
ourselves?” 

And he realised, as she looked eagerly at him, 
that here was a young thing full of spirit and play- 
fulness. 

Angel, as she turned and surveyed her guar- 
dian where he still sat at table, the rose-shaded lamp 
throwing a becoming light on his clear-cut, dark 
face, and deep-set eyes, acknowledged with a sudden 
stab that here was a man as young, attractive, and 
marriageable, as many of her late admirers. The 
title of uncle or guardian was a ridiculous misfit. 

For his part, he was wondering what he was to 
do with this graceful, radiant creature, full of life, 
will, vitality, and imagination. Perhaps it was just 
as well that she had broken away from Lady Au- 
gusta and her pernicious influence; but where was 
she to live? What was he to do with her? If he 
had been twenty years older. 

Her question roused him, and he answered : 


DINNER FOR TWO 167 

‘‘I have no accomplishments whatever, and I 
throw myself upon your generosity.” 

“Well, I am very frivolous,” she acknowledged, 
airily; “it is in my blood, and I know some parlour 
tricks.” As she concluded she swept into the next 
room, and presently returned carrying a gaily-be- 
ribboned mandoline, and two packs of cards. 
“These were so useful on board ship,” she ex- 
plained, as she sat down ; “made me quite run after. 
Ever so many people invited me to stay, but I told 
them I was coming out to my guardian.” She paused, 
and then coloured vividly as she recalled the ex- 
traordinary contrast between the ideal grey-haired 
picture she carried in her mind’s eye, and this young 
and vigorous reality. As she talked, she dealt out 
the cards. What pretty hands ! — Gascoigne assured 
himself that he was in love — with her hands. “You 
play cards, of course?” she enquired, looking up at 
him with her direct gaze. 

“Yes; whist only — strict whist, mind you; no 
Bumble puppy.” 

“Oh, that is because you belong to a scientific 
corps,” with a shrug of extreme commiseration. 
“Nevertheless, your education is far from complete. 
I’ll teach you euchre, poker, picquet, and ever so 
many good games of patience. Here is one for 
two,” and she began to deal and explain. 

The lesson proved so interesting that the couple 
were completely absorbed, and deaf to the rising of 
the storm, the crashing and clashing of trees around 
them, the roar of the downpour on the roof, and the 
thunder of the mountain torrents. 

After the cards, music. Angel took up and tuned 


i68 


ANGEL 


her gay mandoline, seated herself in a low chair, and 
began to play and sing. Her voice was not power- 
ful ; it was sweet, it was delicious, and had been ad- 
mirably taught. The fair syren sang several songs 
to Philip — spell-bound (as well as an enraptured 
audience of servants, jampannis, and coolies, who 
were secretly jostling one another in the back veran- 
dah, and among them was the ayah, who assumed 
the airs of a manager who introduces to the public 
a wonderful ‘‘Diva’^ whom he has discovered). 

Philip leant back in his chair, his eyes fixed on 
the singer; she was giving “La Belle Napoli” with 
extraordinary charm and verve. What a pretty 
picture she presented, with her gay mandoline, her 
expressive face, her graceful pose — he would never 
forget this evening — never. It seemed as if the very 
goddess of youth and joy had descended on his 
shabby little home! Suddenly the music ended 
with a crash, and Angela half rose and cried : 

“Who — are those women — looking in through 
the window ?” 

Gascoigne started up as if he had been struck; 
he followed her glance, and beheld a pair of weird 
visages glowering through the darkness. The face 
of Mrs. Plant — a woman with a tongue — and the 
face of her sister. Miss Ball, both acquaintances from 
Marwar. 

These two ladies had been in desperate extremi- 
ties ; they had, in spite of all advice, insisted on de- 
scending — roads or no roads — to Marwar for a ball. 
Their jampannis and coolies had^ missed the path, 
night had fallen, the storm had burst, and there 
they all were benighted in the jungle. Even the 


DINNER FOR TWO 169 

hill-men were at a loss, and grunted to one another 
interrogatively. One man remembered, as if by in- 
spiration, the engineer’s bungalow, and to this, 
after a weary toil and many interruptions, they made 
their way. There was a light — how welcome to 
the poor, forlorn ladies struggling far below in outer 
darkness. At last they reached the long-prayed- 
for shelter, crawled out of their jampans, and looked 
in at the window, whilst some of their bearers 
ran, shouting, to the servants’ quarters. The recent 
and somewhat noisy arrival was, to the inmates, 
drowned by the roar of the elements. The two 
ladies gazed in — there was barely room for both 
their faces in the little window, and this was what 
they saw. An extravagantly-illuminated room, 
a crimson-shaded lamp on the table, cards scattered 
in all directions, comfort to correspond. Major 
Gascoigne, in evening dress, leaning back in his 
chair, smoking, listening with obvious rapture to a 
pretty girl — yes, a smartly-dressed girl — a com- 
plete stranger to them, who was evidently supremely 
at home, and singing to a gaily-decorated man- 
doline. What a picture of dissipation ! Could they 
believe their eyes? Was this how Major Gascoigne, 
the eligible but impregnable bachelor, spent the time 
when he was supposed to be deeply immersed in his 
work — and his duty? 

Mrs. Plant rapped her knuckles against the win- 
dow pane ; the summons was imperious. Gascoigne 
jumped to his feet; his face was a shade graver, as 
he said : 

“It is some people who have lost their way.” 

“Why, of course, it never rains but it pours,” said 


ANGEL 


170 

Angel, putting down the mandoline with a gesture 
of impatience, as her cousin opened the door and 
admitted the drenched wayfarers. 

These entered with cold, suspicious eyes, and 
brought with them a gust of icy, driving rain, which 
caused the lamp to flare. 

“We lost our way,’' announced Mrs. Plant, from 
the depth of the prim waterproof, “and were so 
thankful to see your light. Major Gascoigne. I 
declare, when it came in sight I said a little prayer.” 

“Pm glad you managed to make me out,” was his 
mendacious reply. “Let me introduce Miss Gas- 
coigne, my cousin,” indicating Angel ; “she will look 
after you. Angel, this is Mrs. Plant and her sister. 
Miss Ball. I leave them in your hands, whilst I see 
about their coolies and dinner.” 

“How cosy,” said Mrs. Plant, “how — ah” — 
searching for an adjective — “comfortable you are.” 

“Yes, a charming little — hiding-place, an ideal 
retreat,” echoed her sister, with peculiar significance. 

“Is it not?” assented Angel, hastily gathering up 
the cards, and putting away the mandoline, whilst 
the weather-beaten, hungry women devoured her 
with their eyes. 

A graceful, willow-like figure, light brown hair, 
dressed by a maid; a pretty face and such lovely 
clothes, a Prench gown, turquoise ornaments, a 
vague sniff of violets — an up-to-date young lady, 
with a pair of extremely penetrating dark blue eyes, 
and a self-possession that was at once colossal and 
superb. 

“Do let me help you — I can lend you some dry 


DINNER FOR TWO 171 

things/’ she said, ushering them into her bedroom, 
already made comfortable. 

On the dressing-table her silver-backed brushes 
and mirrors were arranged, her scent-bottles, books, 
dressing-gown, and slippers, all indicated the bower 
of a dainty and somewhat extravagant occupant. 
Angel gave practical assistance. She lent her 
dressing-gown and tea- jacket — her shoes were, un- 
fortunately, too small — she assisted her visitors to 
remove their dripping garments, summoned the 
ayah, gave her voluble directions, and took her 
departure. 

The bearer, who was now positively at his wits’ 
end with three ladies to provide for — as well as all 
their retinue to house — was almost in despair. How- 
ever, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast. 
Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in 
hissing whispers. 

'‘Well,” said Mrs. Plant, “I would not have be- 
lieved it. I’ll never trust a man again.” 

To which announcement her sister replied with a 
snort : 

“Yes; and, of all people. Major Gascoigne — a sort 
of monk, wh6m all the world believes to be a hard- 
working recluse, and to only tolerate women when 
he comes down to Marwar. That he should have 
— this person — hidden away ” 

“Well, we must just put a good face on it,” said 
Mrs. Plant philosophically, “and be civil — any port 
in a storm, you know.” 

“Did you notice her gown ?” said her sister, speak- 
ing, as it were, in italics. “It must have cost a 


ANGEL 


172 

fortune — simple — ^yet so French; and look at her 
dressing-case,” and Miss Ball cast up her eyes in 
pious horror. 

After the ladies had reappeared in the “person’s” 
garments, refreshments were brought in, to which 
they paid serious attention. They partook of 
whiskies and sodas, began to recover from their 
fright and their astonishment, and found their 
tongues. 

“You never saw anything like the road between 
this and Shiram’s,” remarked Mrs. Flant. 

“Oh, I think I can imagine it,” replied Angel, “as 
I came over part of that way this morning.” 

“You? Not really?” in an incredulous key. 

“Yes, I only arrived a few hours before you” — 
the girl was obviously speaking the truth; she was 
a lady — “I came out in the Arabia on Monday.” 

“Then the Mactears were on board?” with a 
judicial air. 

“Yes, they were in the next cabin to us — to the 
friend I came out with.” 

“I’m afraid you won’t have a favourable first 
impression of India,” said Miss Ball. 

“Oh, but I was born here. I was in India till I 
was nine years old. Philip is my guardian, you 
know,” and then she laughed, as she added, “We 
have all taken him by storm to-day.” 

“But you were expected, surely ?” 

“No — no more than you were.” 

“We never heard that Major Gascoigne had a 
ward,” remarked Miss Brewer, trenchantly. 

“If you had been in Ramghur nine years ago, you 
would have heard all about me. Here he comes,” as 


DINNER FOR TWO 


173 

Philip entered and beheld the ladies cheered and 
clothed, and in a right state of mind. Evidently they 
were getting on capitally with Angela, and this was 
important, though she was too simple to guess at 
her guardian’s reason for being particularly civil 
to his guests. Mrs. Plant had a sharp tongue; she 
lived in his station, knew all his friends, and was 
capable of making a very fine story out of this even- 
ing’s rencontre, Angel rather wondered at her cou- 
sin’s affability, and how well he talked. After a 
while he said: 

“You three ladies had better turn in soon, as 
you’ll have a long day to-morrow ; you will have to 
share the same room,” he explained, “and to rough 
it a good deal, I’m afraid.” 

“Not half as much as you in a wet tent,” cried 
Angela. 

“Oh, I’m all right. To-morrow,” addressing him- 
self to Mrs. Plant, “I will do my best to get you on 
down to Khartgodam.” 

“You are so anxious to be rid of us,” cried Miss 
Brewer, coquettish, in Angel’s charming tea- jacket 
with its faint perfume of lilac. 

“Oh, no, not at all, but my cousin is most anxious 
to get down to Mrs. Gordon.” 

“Oh, do you know Mrs. Gordon?” 

“She has known her since she was a child,” replied 
Major Gascoigne. Angel sat by and marvelled. “I 
will accompany you myself, and put you across the 
bad bits. But I cannot get leave — in fact, I would 
not take it, the district is in such an awful condition, 
and I shall be obliged if you will take charge of my 
cousin, and hand her over to Mrs. Gordon.” 


ANGEL 


174 

‘'Oh, we shall be only too delighted,” said Mrs. 
Plant. “It will be so nice all travelling together. It 
was quite providential our finding the bungalow.” 

“For me also,” he replied. “I was just wonder- 
ing how Angel really was to travel, and your turning 
up here is a piece of wonderful good luck.” 

Angel opened her eyes to their widest extent. 
Was her guardian an accomplished hypocrite? His 
countenance, when he had descried those two white 
faces peering in at the window, had expressed 
amazement, horror, and disgust. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE PARTING GUESTS 

The morning succeeding the arrivals, and the 
storm, was cloudless. There are few things more 
beautiful, or more treacherous, than a break in the 
rains in the Himalayas. The sun shone brilliantly, 
the sky was a dense turquoise blue, against which 
stood out a far-away range of jagged white peaks. 
A stillness lay upon the deep, dim valleys beneath 
the forest bungalow, there was scarcely a sound be- 
sides the twitter of birds, and the thunder of a 
water-course. 

Miss Ball was standing in the verandah pulling 
on her gloves, and contemplating the scene. The 
party were on the eve of departure. 

‘‘What a delicious spot this is,’’ she exclaimed, 
rapturously, to Major Gascoigne; “isn’t it perfectly 
lovely, Bella? I should like to come here for my 
honeymoon.” 

“You must first get hold of the bridegroom,” de- 
clared her sister in a tart voice. Fanny’s disappoint- 
ments had begun to have a wearing effect upon that 
lady’s patience, and this early start, and the natural 
apprehension of a detestable, if not dangerous jour- 
ney, had somewhat darkened her outlook on life. 

“The bungalow is always at Miss Ball’s dis- 
posal,” replied the host gallantly. “And now we 
must be getting under weigh, as we have a long 
march before us.” 


ANGEL 


176 

In ten minutes the verandah was empty, the last 
coolie had disappeared among the trees, Abdul, the 
Khansamah, free from further anxieties, retired to 
his charpoy, and his huka. It proved to be a day of 
thrilling adventures, of almost hair-breadth escapes. 
Mrs. Plant emphatically declared that she could not 
face certain obstacles, but she managed to progress, 
thanks to her escort’s cool determination, and ruth- 
lessly deaf ear to her agonised exclamations. Miss 
Ball, on the back of a stalwart hill-man, cut a 
sufficiently ridiculous figure; she had not the nerve 
to skirt a certain frowning precipice on her own feet. 
The path was narrow, the drop apparently fathom- 
less, her fears and protestations entailed twenty 
minutes’ delay. She angrily refused to follow her 
sister’s example to be led across blindfolded by Gas- 
coigne, she simply sat in her jampan (hill-chair), 
and there lifted up her voice and wept. 

Whatever Major Gascoigne’s mental remarks 
were, outwardly, he was the personification of 
politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last the 
lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of 
a grunting Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, 
and with her eyelids squeezed tightly together, her 
long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne to 
the other side. Thus she got across one of the “bad 
bits.” Whatever obstacles they encountered, their 
leader never flinched. He worked hard in his shirt 
sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and 
coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crum- 
bling tracks, over water-courses, and from rock to 
rock amid boiling torrents. It was the hardest day’s 


THE PARTING GUESTS 177 

work that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging 
coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that 
he was bound to succumb. But Angel, luckily for 
him, had no fear. She was blessed with a wonderful 
head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and 
swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, 
or walked along a six-inch path precisely as if she 
were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian’s time being 
engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge 
of three agonised companions, he had but scant op- 
portunity of talking to her ; but once, when the worst 
part of the journey was behind them, the ladies were 
ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one 
another’s society, as they passed through a forest 
of rhododendrons. 

“Well — that’s over!” said Gascoigne, as he drew 
a long breath, took off his hat, and mopped his head 
with his handkerchief. 

“You won’t offer to be squire of dames again in 
a hurry?” said Angel, with a mischievous laugh. “I 
never saw such cowards. They were as bad as the 
ayah — they gibbered.” 

“I suppose it’s constitutional,” he replied; “they 
could not help their feelings.” 

“At least they might have concealed them,” re- 
joined the girl, indignantly. 

“Do you always conceal yours, Angel?” 

“I do my best — I’m trying hard ; I can with some 
things,” she answered, “and if I were afraid, I’d 
rather die than show it.” 

“I am quite certain of that,” he replied, “but you 
have a stout heart, I cannot fancy your being afraid 


ANGEL 


178 

of anything. I’ve a letter here for Mrs. Gordon — 

will you give it to her? It will explain ” he 

hesitated. 

“ — me” she supplemented briskly. 

“Yes, she will be delighted to have you. She is 
very much alone, her husband is absorbed in his 
work — and they have no children.” 

“Is she nice?” inquired his companion. 

“She is one of the best women I’ve ever known.” 

“Yet she may be extremely disagreeable,” argued 
Angela. 

No, she is charming, and so popular. She is 
sympathetic, clear-headed, and practical — everyone 
takes their troubles to Mrs. Gordon.” 

“And you are sending her your trouble by rail ?” 

“Nonsense, Angel, she will look upon you as a 
great boon, and be infinitely obliged to me. I am 
sure you will like her.” 

“Why should you be sure?” she protested; “some- 
times I like the people I ought not to like, and don’t 
like the people I ought to like — and there is no de- 
pendence on me.” 

“What a way to talk,” he exclaimed. “It will be 
strange if you and Mrs. Gordon don’t hit it off.” 

“Do you think I shall shock her — as I do you?” 

“I was not aware that I was shocked. She is a 
good woman, who is not narrow-minded, and her 
friends are many and various. Lucky is the young 
man or girl, who, on first coming out, falls into her 
sphere. There are very few people who have net 
been the better for Mrs. Gordon’s influence.” 

“And yet she cannot influence her own husband,” 
jremarked Angel drily. “He is still a bear.” 


THE PARTING GUESTS 179 

‘‘Unfortunately he is — and a grizzly bear at that,” 
admitted Gascoigne. “He has no interest in life be- 
yond his work, which includes personal ambition, a 
certain class of Persian love-songs — and perhaps — 
his liver.” 

“What a mixture!” she ejaculated. “Well, I shall 
insist on his taking an interest in me, and before 
long, you will hear of his spouting Persian love- 
songs, as we stroll up and down among roses, and 
bul-buls.” 

Gascoigne burst into a loud, involuntary laugh, as 
the incongruous picture tickled his imagination. His 
laugh rang down through the forest trees, and 
reached the ladies, who looked at one another with 
peculiar significance. 

“Oh, yes,” resurried Angel, “I intend to influence 
ursa Major; through him I shall influence his wife; 
through her, I shall influence the whole province. I 
shall be like a pebble thrown into a pool, whose rip- 
ples go far;” then in a voice, “When shall you be 
down, Philip?” 

“In three weeks or a month, and meanwhile I 
know, Angel, you will be happy with Mrs. Gordon ; 
she will introduce you to the people — and show you 
the ropes.” 

“Oh, but I know the ropes,” said Angel, kicking 
a pine cone before her, “I’ve not forgotten my India. 
Kind, hospitable, intimate old India, with your 
mysterious under life, your tragedies, and comedies, 
and scandals. I love you still,” and she paused for 
a moment to kiss her hand to a distant peep of the 
far-away blue plains. “Can anything be more ex- 
quisite than this view?” she continued. “Look at 


i8o 


ANGEL 


the ferns and moss growing on the trees, the carpets 
of wild orchids, the stern purple mountains; I 
should like to remain in these hills — they seem to 
draw me to them. I was born in the Himalayas, 
you know. Well, I suppose I must leave them,” and 
she heaved a sigh. “It is a pity, for I feel as if I 
could be so good up here.” 

“I trust that you can be good anywhere?” said 
Gascoigne. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she rejoined. “I am so sen- 
sitive to climate. I love the sunshine, it makes me 
good-natured and generous, but I always feel 
so wicked in an east wind! As for my sensations 
in a stuffy, three-berth cabin, with two sea-sick com- 
panions — but I spare you. By the way, one of my 
fellow-sufferers, a Mrs. Farquhar, gave me an ur- 
gent invitation to visit her at Umballa.” 

Gascoigne most devoutly wished that Angel had 
accepted this offer, and thus given him even a few 
days’ breathing-space. 

He looked at his ward, as she walked lightly be- 
side him. She was so natural, so simple, yet so 
worldly wise ; and she was distractingly pretty — ^not 
many men would have been so painfully anxious to 
rid themselves of such a companion. 

She would certainly turn the heads of all the 
young fellows in Marwar. What a prospect for 
him! Already he beheld himself at a wedding, 
giving away the hand of the most lovely bride. 
Yes, of course, it would not be long before Angel 
was carried off; she was a girl of unusual attrac- 
tions, and with this hope in his heart he became quite 
hilarious. She would make a far happier marriage 


THE PARTING GUESTS i8i 

under his and Mrs. Gordon’s auspices than under 
that of her heartless and worldly old grandmother. 

On second thoughts, Major Gascoigne accom- 
panied the party the whole way to the railway, and 
saw them off, although it entailed an immense ride 
afterwards. 

He wished to despatch a long explanatory wire to 
Mrs. Gordon, so that Angel might not burst upon 
her as she had done on him ; nor need the child have 
all the awkwardness of announcing herself, and pro- 
ducing her credentials. He secured tickets, saw to 
refreshments, baggage, servants, and then came the 
taking leave of the three ladies. Angel had half ex- 
pected him to kiss her, but he merely gave her a 
warm handshake. He was very funny now, so odd, 
and stiff, and changed, yet just the same dear old 
Philip. And thus Angel set off in the little tin-pot 
railway to Marwar, where she was to live under 
Mrs. Gordon’s chaperonage, turn the heads of all 
the young men, and to meet her fate. As Philip 
turned his hired pony once more towards the hill, 
and a thirty-five mile ride, leaving his own steed to 
follow, his thoughts accompanied a party in the little 
black train now panting through the Terai. 

And as he regained, late at night, his now de- 
serted bungalow, his thoughts dwelt, as he smoked, 
over the extraordinary incidents of the last twenty- 
four to thirty hours. What experiences had been 
compassed into them, like a meat-lozenge of emo- 
tions. 

As in his mind’s eye, her guardian again beheld 
that charming child flitting about his room ; remem- 
bered her speaking and sunny eyes, he told himself 


i 82 


ANGEL 


that his ward had far surpassed his expectations. 
Surpassed? — his expectations had never ventured 
upon such an ideal, and he made up his mind that 
he would be extremely difficult to please, as her 
guardian, and that it was only some real good fellow 
who would have his consent to marry Angel. Then 
he set his memory to work. He deliberately passed 
all his friends, and his acquaintances, in critical re- 
view — no, there was not one of them worthy to dust 
her shoes! 


CHAPTER XX 


A DESTROYING ANGEL 

Captain Shafto was taking tea with Mrs. Gor- 
don in the great important looking drawing-room, 
which befitted the wife of a Commissioner, and fu- 
ture Lieutenant-Governor. She was, although five- 
and-thirty, a strikingly attractive woman, with 
sweet dark eyes, a sympathetic voice, a graceful car- 
riage, and supreme tact. On the other hand, Billy 
Shafto’s beauty had been somewhat tarnished by 
several bad “go’s” of fever, a series of hot seasons 
in the plains, and roughing it on an Afghan cam- 
paign, but he was still good-looking, popular, and 
unmarried. As his hostess was about to add sugar 
to his tea, a telegram was brought to her by a scarlet 
chuprassi, and presented with a deep salaam. 

She picked it carelessly off the salver, and, glanc- 
ing at it, said, “It is probably from Donald to say 
he cannot be home till to-morrow — the new assess- 
ment is so tedious.” But as she read the telegram 
she gave a little gasp, and said, “From Major 
Gascoigne. You” — and she looked at it again — 
“will never guess what it’s about.” 

“Of course I can,” replied Shafto with the utmost 
confidence; “he is going to be married, though I’m 
blessed if I can guess to whom — everyone tells you 
first, you are the Queen of Matchmakers, and the 
universal confidante — yes, poor Phil, gone at last.” 

“No, you are quite cold — try again,” she said. 


ANGEL 


184 

“Again ’’ he repeated, and his eyes travelled 

thoughtfully round the pillared room, with its im- 
mense palms, imposing mirrors, and ottomans, an 
awe-inspiring official room, offering dim sugges- 
tions of future receptions. 

“I give it up — stop, no I don’t,’’ and he slapped 
his knee, “it’s about Angel/^ 

“Yes, you are wonderfully quick, I must say, but 
why did you think of her?” 

“I always knew she’d give him trouble yet.” 

“I don’t know about the trouble, but she has 
joined him in the hills without a moment’s notice.” 

Shafto gave a loud laugh. “That’s Angel all the 
world over ! I was always dead against Phil taking 
over charge of that girl. I knew he’d be let in. Here 
she comes out. I’ll venture to say, as wild and un- 
manageable as ever. What the dickens is he going 
to do with her?” 

“Well, for the present,” said Mrs. Gordon with a 
faint smile, “he is sending her down to me. I dare- 
say, ultimately, he will arrange for her return to 
England.” 

“From what I remember, of Angel I fancy there 
will be two words to that. He might place her with 
some family ; there are no end of girls out here now, 
as paying guests — ^but it's a day after the fair. As 
long as she is unmarried, he will be in hot water. 
You never know where you are with Angel, or 
where she will have you.” 

“You seem to have a bad opinion of her, poor 
girl,” remarked the lady. 

“Well, yes — and with good reason. What does 
Phil say?” 


A DESTROYING ANGEL 185 

“ ‘Angela arrived yesterday unexpectedly. Am 
sending her to you by four o’clock train. Please 
meet, and receive her, and pardon P. G.’ ” 

“Umph,” muttered Shafto, as he folded up the 
telegram, “she will be here at ten to-morrow. Shall 
I meet her and bring her up ? I knew her in pina- 
fores.” 

“Thank you so much, for Donald expects me to 
be at breakfast. I will send down the carriage and 
a chuprassi, and have the room all ready.” 

“I wonder what she will be like?” said the man 
with a meditative air. 

“A little creature with fluffy hair — rather silent 
and frightened,” suggested the lady ; and as Shafto 
always received whatever Mrs. Gordon said as gos- 
pel, he was searching for the counterpart of this 
description in the morning train. Mrs. Plant and 
her sister greeted him agreeably, and he explained 
that he had not come to meet them — but that Mrs. 
Gordon had sent him to receive a friend. 

“Perhaps I am the individual,” suggested a tall, 
striking-looking pretty girl; “is her name Gas- 
coigne ?” 

“You don’t mean to say that you are Angel?” he 
exclaimed, grasping her hand ; “I never would have 
known you.” 

“No,” rather drily, “but I recognise you. You 
are Captain Shafto.” He coloured with pleasure, till 
she added, “who always so strongly disapproved of 
me.” 

“Now, there your excellent memory is at fault,” 
was his mendacious reply, “who could ever have dis- 
approved of you?’' for he had fallen in love with 


i86 


ANGEL 


this smiling vision on the spot. ‘Xet me get your 
luggage out — I suppose your ayah is somewhere — 
the carriage is here/' and he bustled about, proud 
and important, and all the way back to the Com- 
missioner’s, as they sat opposite to one another in 
the roomy landau, Shafto the Scorner was fev- 
erishly endeavoring to win the smiles and good will 
of this exquisite and rather disdainful Angel. He 
was her first victim — and by no means the last. 

Mrs. Gordon welcomed the traveller warmiy, 
kissed her, took her to her best guest chamber, and 
sent her in a recherche breakfast. 

Meanwhile she read the epistle that was, so to 
speak, Angel’s letter of credit. So she had escaped 
from her grandmother, and all the stimulating froth 
of modern society, and cast herself into the arms of 
her guardian. Poor, poor Philip! never a ladies’ 
man — though many women found him most inter- 
esting and attractive — what was he to do, with this 
wild and beautiful ward ? 

In a surprisingly short time Miss Gascoigne had 
made her presence felt in Marwar. Mrs. Gordon 
had submitted to be enslaved ; her stolid, self- 
engrossed husband had expressed his admiration, 
Shafto was her bond servant, and within a week 
Mrs. Gordon, popular Mrs. Gordon, had never re- 
membered in all her experience such a rush of young 
men’s cards and calls. Angel had unpacked her 
pretty toilettes — toilettes that threw her mother’s 
home-made costumes completely into the shade — 
which she wore with an everyday grace. Lovely, 
fascinating, maddening, was the station verdict, as 


A DESTROYING ANGEL 187 

they saw the girl in carriage, or on horseback ; such 
a creature had not adorned for twenty years, and 
oh! what a charge for Philip Gascoigne. Mean- 
while Angel revived old memories, captured the af- 
fections of Mrs. Gordon, threw out many queries 
respecting Philip, and embarked on a series of flirta- 
tions. 

Mrs. Plant and Miss Ball at first posed to the 
station as her original friends and sponsors. They 
were important on the subject; she had been given 
into their care by Major Gascoigne, and it was 
with them that she had travelled from Khartgo- 
dam. She was a delightful companion, so amusing 
and so vivacious. But as days flew by a change 
came o'er the spirit of their dream, for among the 
crowd who had flocked to Angela's standard was a 
certain Mr. Tarletan in the D. P. W., who had 
sworn, or, at least whispered, allegiance to Fanny 
Ball. This put a completely new complexion on An- 
gela's character. Miss Ball was some years over 
thirty, a slender young woman, whose admirers and 
good looks were visibly deserting her, and her sister 
was painfully anxious to see Fanny settled. Fanny 
had been foolish, and let so many good chances slip 
through her fingers; Mr. Tarletan represented the 
last of these; it was really a most serious matter. 
He had been asked to the house, lavishly enter- 
tained, and taken out to dances; he had spent a 
whole expensive month with the Plants in the hills, 
on the strength of his attentions : did the man sup- 
pose he was going to get out of that for nothing F 
But this mean-spirited miscreant ignored all bonds 
and claims, and prostrated himself at the feet of the 


i88 


ANGEL 


adorable Angel. His greetings to Mrs. Flant were 
offhand and brief, his answers to her questions curt, 
his pressing engagements fictional. As he had 
seven hundred rupees a month, and good prospects, 
Mrs. Flant was not going to suffer him to escape; 
she accordingly turned to her most seasoned and for- 
midable weapon — her tongue. 

As soon as Mrs. Flant began to ‘‘talk” there were 
whispers ; hitherto there were no two male opinions 
respecting Miss Gascoigne’s beauty, her figure, her 
vivacity, her charm — now there were no two female 
opinions respecting her — reputation. Mrs. Scott had 
requested Mrs. Gordon in a peculiarly pointed man- 
ner, not to bring Miss Gascoigne to her dance, and 
Mrs. Gordon had replied with stately emphasis: 
“Certainly not, and I shall remain at home with my 
guest.” Then Mrs. Scott had grown pink, red, scar- 
let — a Commissioner’s wife is a dangerous woman 
to snub (in India), and Mrs. Gordon was the wife 
of a Commissioner. “Of course you are the last to 
hear the station scandal,” she burst out, “and there 
is such a thing as being too charitable. You don’t 
know what people are saying about Philip Gascoigne 
and his — ward.” 

“You need not hesitate. She is his ward — what 
more ?” 

“When Mrs. Flant discovered ** 

“Oh, Mrs. Flant is a Christopher Columbus for — 
new scandals and mare’s nests.” 

“Well, at any rate, she surprised Major Gas- 
coigne and his ward in a lonely bungalow in the 
hills, perfectly happy and at home together. She 
says she believes they were there for weeks.” 


A DESTROYING ANGEL 189 

“And even so?’’ 

“Mrs. Gordon,” rising and evidently preparing to 
shake the dust off her feet, “if you had young people 
— you would never be so lax. Miss Gascoigne is 
pretty in a certain odd French style — she is grown 
up, and what is Major Gascoigne?” 

“Her guardian — her mother ” 

“No,” interrupting wildly; “an attractive bach- 
elor in the prime of life — many people consider him 
the handsomest man in the station.” 

“But what has that got to do with the question?” 

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Gordon!” Here Mrs. Scott 
shrugged her shoulders, and with a dramatic “Good 
afternoon,” stalked out of the great drawing-room. 
It was in the air, and in people’s eyes. Mrs. Gordon 
felt it, and saw it, although Angel at her side, all 
white muslin, and smiles, was as innocenf as any 
May-day lamb, who fails to see in the approaching 
figure in a blue overall — the arbiter of its fate. 

Whilst the station was simmering to boiling-point. 
Major Gascoigne returned to Marwar, and dined at 
the Gordons’ on the nieht of his arrival. He arrived 
late, just in time to take his partner in to dinner; it 
was not a so-called “Burra Khana,” but merely a 
friendly informal affair, half-a-dozen of the station 
boys, a couple “passing through,” Angel, and him- 
self. As for Angel, it seemed to him that his prog- 
nostications had been fulfilled. She looked brilliantly 
lovely, yes, that was the adjective, her colour was 
like a rose, her eyes shone. She carried herself with 
an air, though she chattered any quantity of fascin- 
ating nonsense. She was irresistible, and all the 


190 ANGEL 

boys bowed down before her, like the sheaves of 
Joseph’s brethren. 

He thought Mrs. Gordon looked a little worn and 
anxious, possibly her Indian bear had been unusually 
selfish and savage. Poor woman, when she married 
Gordon twelve years previously, a pretty, simple 
country clergyman’s daughter, longing to see the 
East, and strongly recommended to the bear by his 
maiden aunts — he had come home to look for a wife 
precisely as he would for a camera or a bicycle — she 
little dreamt of the life that she was doomed to live, 
the stones for bread, the serpents for fish, and yet 
how she kept her sorrows to herself, what reticence, 
self-control, and womanly dignity ; who ever 
heard her complain of a hard taskmaster, his iron 
rule, and her barren life? 

After dinner Angel sang; it seemed to be ex- 
pected as part of the evening’s entertainment. Major 
Gascoigne leant against the wall in the background, 
and marvelled and listened. She stood behind her 
accompanist and facing the room, and when Angel 
opened her mouth to sing she still continued to look 
charming. She wore a white dress trimmed with 
shining silver, it had a low neck and long sleeves, 
according to the fashion ; a few crimson roses were 
fastened in the bodice, a little chain and locket 
encircled her long throat ; the expression of her eyes 
was interesting to watch — what passion lay dormant 
in those deep blue orbs — who would be the happy 
man on whom they would ultimately smile? There 
was no question that his ward possessed the fatal 
gift, and he could hardly realise that this charming, 
enchanting and destroying Angel was the little for- 


A DESTROYING ANGEL 191 

lorn creature whom he had educated and befriended. 
He thought of her grandmother’s furious letter, 
which had swiftly followed on the runaway; it was 
evidently written when the heart of the writer was 
hot within her. It said, “Angel is her mother’s own 
daughter, though I was never brought into personal 
contact with that adventuress, who robbed me of 
my youngest son. It was about this woman that we 
quarrelled, her daughter and I ; in a fury she left me, 
and fled to you ; regardless of appearances, duty, or 
gratitude. I wash my hands of her absolutely, and 
I deplore your fate.” 

When the party was breaking up, Philip Gas- 
coigne snatched a few words with his ward, who 
was closely invested by her admirers. They were 
planning a riding party for the following morning ; 
any number of perfect horses were preferred for her 
selection, her usual mount being lame. 

“I will send over a pretty little Arab, that will 
carry you perfectly,” suggested her guardian. 

“Thank you very much, Philip, but I’ve almost 
decided to ride Captain de Hor say’s polo pony, who 
can’t bear women, and shies when he sees one— rid- 
ing him will be an experience.” 

“You may say so,” put in Captain de Horsay’s 
rival,” much better ride my stud bred — you’ll never 
hold him.” 

“Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast 
that he ran away with a lady, and his character as 
a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please. Captain 
de Horsay, I’ll have Schopenhauer at half-past six.” 

The riding party, which consisted of Mrs. Gor- 
don, Angel, Philip, and four men, duly came off. 


ANGEL 


192 

and though Schopenhauer ran away with the lady, 
she thought it great fun, but the pony’s excitability 
and eccentricities precluded all chance of enjoying a 
comfortable tete-d-tete with anyone. She was, how- 
e\'er, an admirable horsew^oman, whatever her driv- 
ing might be, and the black pony had undoubtedly 
met his match. Gascoigne took leave of the party 
outside the Commissioner’s bungalow, and galloped 
straight home. As he entered his cool sitting-room, 
he was rather surprised to discover the station chap- 
lain occupying his own especial arm-chair. 


CHAPTER XXI 


^‘'think it over"'' 

The Reverend Arthur Eliot, ‘Tadre Eliot,"" as his 
people called him, was a notable figure in society, 
an active, well-built man of six or seven and thirty, 
with a square, clean-shaven face and an exceedingly 
sweet smile. He never preached longer than fifteen 
minutes, he was an admirable bowler, played a hard 
set of tennis and sang a good song. All this went 
far to account for his popularity. He was also un- 
married — though this in India is unimportant — ^but, 
more than all, he was a fearless, outspoken pastor, 
whose example and works did far more good 
amongst his flock, especially the young men, than 
constant services and ornate ritual. 

He worked indefatigably among the soldiers 
and Eurasians, their wives and children, and strove 
to provide occupation and amusement for them all, 
fully endorsing Dr. Watt"s opinion respecting “Sa- 
tan and idle hands."" In sickness and in health it 
was the Padre they all turned to, and many a poor 
soul had leaned on his arm, as it groped its way to 
another world. He lived plainly and simply in a 
little cheap bungalow, and was a near neighbour to 
Major Gascoigne, between whom and himself there 
existed a most cordial friendship. The Padre was 
such a busy man that Gascoigne knew, the instant he 
saw him, that only important business had brought 
him to call in the golden hours of the morning. 


ANGEL 


194 

“Hullo, Gascoigne,” he said cheerily, as he en- 
tered, “I am glad to see you back.” 

“Yes, thank you, only arrived last night. Fve 
had a tremendously big job up the hills — they all 
seemed determined to run down into the plains; I 
never remember such rains,” and he threw himself 
into a chair, and tossed his cap on the table. 

“And now you are home for good,” said the 
Padre, and his face took a more serious expression, 
as he sat erect and crumpled his terai hat in his vig- 
orous hands. 

“Look here, Gascoigne,” he continued with an 
effort, “I’ve come to have a good square jaw with 
you, about something that will be disagreeable, but 
you know it’s the Padre’s duty to stand in the fore- 
front, when talking has to be done.” 

“I know,” assented his companion. “I suppose 
you want me to take back Johnson, the overseer — I 
honestly would if I could — I’m sorry for his family 
— I’ve given him two chances.” 

“My dear fellow,” interrupted the chaplain, 
stretching out his hand, “it is not that at all. I’ve 
come to speak to you about Miss Gascoigne, your 
ward.” 

“What about Miss Gascoigne?” inquired her 
cousin. His manner stiffened, and his voice as- 
sumed an Arctic coolness. 

“I suppose you know how a station gossips — in 
the billiard-room, barracks, and bazaar?” 

“I suppose I do,” he said contemptuously. 

“Have you any notion of the talk there has been 
respecting Miss Gascoigne?” 

“Every new-comer has to pass through that or- 


‘‘THINK IT OVER” 195 

deal — by tongue,” interrupted the other man with a 
gesture of impatience. 

^‘Please allow me to finish,” protested his friend 
gravely. ‘‘Of course you are not likely to hear a 
breath — no one would venture to tell you; but the 
air is thick with rumours concerning your cousin 
and yourself.” 

“And where do I come in ?” he asked sharply, “in 
what character?” 

“The usual character a man assumes when a very 
pretty woman is in question — the role of lover.” 

Gascoigne kicked over a footstool, and rose to his 
feet. He had grown suddenly white. 

“Who dares to couple our names in that way?” he 
asked hoarsely. The veins in his temples swelled, 
and his eyes flashed. 

“Most people,” was the staggering reply; “you 
see, you and she were alone at your forest bungalow. 
Mrs. Plant has been drawing a highly-coloured pic' 
ture of your menage — she has thrown out hints.” 

“To which no one who knows her will listen,” 
broke in Gascoigne. 

“Oh, yes, I regret to say, that there is a large class 
who like to hear ill-doings attributed to others — es- 
pecially when those others have been sans peur, and 
sans reproche/' 

Gascoigne stared at the Padre for some seconds. 
At last he spoke. “Pll tell you the plain facts, Eliot. 
Ten years ago I adopted my little cousin, and took 
over the charge from her dying mother. I sent the 
child to England and educated her; latterly her 
grandmother has given her a home. They have had 
a violent quarrel, and the impulsive girl came 


ANGEL 


196 

straight off to me. She arrived exactly two hours 
before Mrs. Plant and her sister. I need scarcely 
say that her unexpected descent embarrassed me a 
good deal. That’s the whole affair — I know it is 
unnecessary to explain myself to you” 

“Quite,” was the laconic reply, “but you are in an 
awkward position, as guardian to a young lady ; and 
one of such a remarkable and out of the com- 
mon character. When you accepted the post she was 
a child — now you have a beautiful woman on your 
hands. You are a young man, and unmarried. This 
gives the enemy occasion to blaspheme.” 

Gascoigne muttered something which is absolutely 
unsuitable for print. Aloud he said, “I wish I were 
seventy years of age. I suppose that would shut 
people’s mouths?” 

“It would simplify matters, certainly,” acquiesced 
the Padre. “Miss Gascoigne did an extraordinarily 
foolish thing when she rushed out tO' India and 
hurled herself into your charge. She never realised 
the gravity of the step she was taking. I gather that 
she is a girl to act first, and then to sit down and 
think? In the present instance she will have to sit 
down and repent in sackcloth and ashes for the in- 
jury she has done to herself — and you.” 

“Oh, never mind me,” broke in his companion 
impatiently, “what is to be done about her? I cannot 
offer her a home here — I cannot leave her with the 
Gordons — I have promised not to send her back to 
England — what am I to do?” and Gascoigne, who 
had been pacing the room with his hands behind his 
back, suddenly came to a halt, directly in front of his 
pastor. 


^‘THINK IT OVER’’ 197 

‘Why cannot you have her to live here?” asked 
Mr. Eliot, gravely. 

“Why?” echoed the other man, “good Lord — is 
not your visit a plain answer to the question? If 
people are such brutes as to make a scandal out of — ” 

Mr. Eliot extended his hand with a gesture of 
deprecation. 

“Oh, then, gO' on,” said Gascoigne impatiently; 
“tell me what I can do? Say the word.” 

“You can — marry her,” was the totally unex- 
pected answer. 

Gascoigne’s reply was equally astonishing ; it took 
the form of a long pause, and then a loud derisive 
laugh. “I — marry Angel!” he cried at last. “Ex- 
cuse me, but the idea is too absurd.” 

“I fail to see anything ridiculous about it,” re- 
joined the Padre. “I think it would be a capital 
match. You are a man in the prime of life, she is 
a charming girl — is there any just cause or impedi- 
ment ?” 

“Twenty.” 

“Give me one, then,” he asked impatiently. 

“She is a mere child.” 

“No; she is a grown-up woman.” 

“We — would be a most incongruous couple, a 
butterfly, and a black working ant.” 

“I cannot see that.” 

“Besides, Angel is not to be disposed of in such a 
summary fashion; she would laugh at the bare 
idea.” 

“Is she not well disposed to you?” and Padre 
Eliot eyed him searchingly. 


198 ANGEL 

“Oh, yes; as a child she was extremely fond of 
me. 

“ ^On revient toujours a ses premiers amours f ” 
quoted his visitor with significance. 

‘'Eliot, you are a clever fellow, and my friend,” 
said Gascoigne, suddenly, “but you are neither 
going to talk me, or quote me, into matrimony. I 
have never — that is to say, not for years — ^thought 
of marrying.” 

“Then it is time you did,” rejoined his visitor, 
with decision. “It is a great mistake for a man to 
put off marrying too long; marriage is an honour- 
able estate. It is not good for man to live alone.” 

“Well, I find the estate extremely comfortable. 
There was peace in Eden till Eve appeared, and I, 
too, can quote scripture, ‘Physician, heal thyself f ” 

“Yes, I thought you knew,” and Mr. Eliot’s face 
grew grave; “I’ve had my romance — she died.” 

Gascoigne did not reply. 

“I’ve had my romance — she jilted me,” he merely 
said. 

“I did not know.” 

“Pardon me. I’m sorry for you; but marriage 
would change the whole current of my life.” 

“And make it deeper and broader and more 
unselfish,” suggested his visitor. 

“I never realised that I was selfish — I expect I 
am ! I like my own way, my own pursuits, my own 
friends. I would be selfish, indeed, if I brought a 
gay young life to share my fossilised routine. 
Eliot,” he continued, still more forcibly, “speaking 
as man to man, surely there is some way of escape 
from this situation? Help me, for my mind is not 


“THINK IT OVER” 


199 

fruitful in devices. I am thinking of Angel, not 
of myself. Is she to be compelled to marry a man 
she has always looked on as a sort of uncle, simply 
because a wicked woman has started an infernal 
scandal ? What is your opinion ?’’ 

*Wou have already had it,” now rising. “I have 
told you what I came here to say. Scandal is hard 
to stifle, even when it has not a tittle of foundation 
— evil minds continue to repeat. ‘There is no 
smoke without a fire.’ I believe there is no fire, 
nothing but the cold, wet sticks of early companion- 
ship. I say, that I know you to be a good fellow, 
Gascoigne ; Miss Angel is a beautiful, high-spirited, 
warm-hearted girl. Accept what fate sends you — 
marry her if you can, and be thankful.” 

“That is your last word ?” 

“Yes; I say no more. Think it over, my dear 
fellow,” and here he laid his hand affectionately on 
the shoulder of his friend ; “you might see Mrs. Gor- 
don. Women are instinctively clever and quick- 
witted in these affairs. Think it over,” and with 
this injunction Mr. Eliot put his terai hat on his 
head, and hastily took his departure. 

For some time after the Padre had left him. 
Major Gascoigne remained sitting in a chair, 
mentally benumbed. By-and-by he roused himself 
with an effort, and set all his wits to work upon 
the subject so brusquely brought to his knowledge. 
The more he reviewed the question, the less he liked 
it. He knew how a breath of gossip can tarnish 
a stainless name, whether at home or abroad; how 
no amount of rubbing will remove the speck of rust 


200 


ANGEL 


which eats it away. Poor Eliot, he was sorry he had 
raked up a dead memory. Eliot was too emotional, 
too sensitive about his flock, very easily frightened 
— and all parsons were match-makers. There must 
be some way out of the wood. Pie would change 
his clothes at once, swallow some breakfast, and ride 
over and talk the thing out with Mrs. Gordon. She 
was generally sewing or writing all the morning in 
the north verandah. Then he suddenly recalled the 
fact that his hostess had seemed a little grave and 
preoccupied the previous evening ; that once or twice 
he had caught her gazing at him with a mysterious 
expression — that once or twice she had been about 
to say something to him during the morning ride, 
and paused; and that she had given him an unusu- 
ally pressing invitation to ‘‘come over soon — and tell 
her all the news.” 

Major Gascoigne was perfectly correct in his 
surmise. As he walked up to the north verandah, 
Mrs. Gordon rose, and held out her hand; in the 
other were several letters. 

“Do come and sit down,” she said. “You are 
the very person I was thinking about, and particu- 
larly wish to see.” As she concluded she held up a 
letter, and said : “This is all about you.” 

“Then it is bound to be stupid,” he rejoined, heav- 
ing a dog out of a chair, and taking its place. “I’ve 
come over to have a talk with you — great wits, 
you see, jump together; but, bar all jokes, I shall be 
glad if your wit will clear up a puzzle for me.” 

Mrs. Gordon looked at him inquiringly, and 
faintly coloured as she said : 


201 


THINK IT OVER’’ 

‘^You have had a visit from Mr. Eliot, good, 
brave man.” 

‘‘Good, yes; but there was no particular question 
of courage,” said Major Gascoigne, rather sharply. 
“Did you fear I would knock him down, or shoot 
him?” and his tone was sarcastic. 

“I’m thinking of moral courage,” she answered 
quickly. “It required a certain amount to go and 
beard you — and tell you — that you had been tried 
by the tribunal of the station and sentenced to — 
marry ” 

“Angel,” he supplemented, half under his breath. 

“Yes, it appears that Mrs. Plant has been assidu- 
ously spreading reports,” continued his companion, 
“and nothing will appease Mrs. Grundy — short of — 
your marriage.” 

“And is it not shameful?” he broke out, with a 
ring of passion in his voice, “that I should have to 
marry that poor child, in order to shut Mrs. Plant’s 
mouth ?” 

“To shut everyone’s mouth,” corrected Mrs. Gor- 
don; “even Donald says it is desirable. Mrs. Plant 
has the pen of a ready writer, as well as hosts of 
correspondents — she has a hideous mind, and, you 
see, you were promoted over her brother’s head.” 

“Simply because he was incompetent. An unmiti- 
gated duffer — his work was notorious. I’m still 
patching and repairing and destroying.” 

“I always thought it was a hazardous experiment, 
your taking charge of Angel,” observed Mrs. Gor- 
don, as she meditatively surveyed her visitor. 

What a handsome fellow he was! with his sun- 
bronzed, clear-cut face — at present clouded with 


202 


ANGEL 


gloom. What an excellent husband he would make ; 
it was a pity he was unmarried, and only (she se- 
cretly felt assured) some extraordinarily tidal wave 
of circumstance such as the present, would ever 
sweep him into the net matrimonial. He would be 
so much happier with a wife. And Angel ? With a 
woman's instinctive knowledge of another, Mrs. 
Gordon knew that Angel — beautiful, bewitching, 
fascinating Angel — loved no one as she did this 
good-looking, dark-eyed cousin, who lay back in his 
chair with his hands locked behind his head, his gaze 
riveted on his well-cut riding boots, and an expres- 
sion of tragic protestation on his countenance. 

Angel was not in love yet. She loved him (there 
is a difference) — she loved him as the champion of 
her childhood, the bond between her and her mother, 
her ideal, champion, and friend. This love was well 
hidden away from all unsympathetic eyes, for Angel 
had made no foolish boast, when she had declared 
that she would conceal her feelings, but the love, a 
rare, strong, pure love, was there. 

Once or twice it had peeped out timidly, and Mrs. 
Gordon had seen it. She was a born match-maker ; 
of her matches she was inordinately proud, and gen- 
erally with good reason. She felt that she had con- 
tributed to the happiness of many, and that, just at 
the critical moment, she had supplied the little look, 
or hint, or word, that brought the whole story to a 
happy ending. 

As she sat with her eyes fastened reflectively on 
her visitor, she rapidly made up her mind that he 
should marry Angel. The ‘‘talk” would eventually 
blow over ; in fact, if she were to dress herself up as 


THINK IT OVER” 


a Japanese, or a negress, and go to the club, the talk 
would instantly be diverted to herself. So much 
for talk! Here was a tide in Philip’s affairs and 
Angel’s, and she resolved to take it at the flood. 

^'1 think you and Angel would be an ideal 
couple,” she said. ‘‘I’m sure you would make her 
happy.” 

“What !” he exclaimed, struggling back out of a 
day dream; “you are not in earnest?” 

“You would be April and July.” 

“No, but a March hare, and a Michaelmas 
goose,” he retorted, scornfully. “I’m much too old 
for her.” 

Mrs. Gordon made no effort to combat this state- 
ment — her husband was seventeen years her senior. 
Was not her bleak married life an awful warning to 
other girls ? 

“She would have someone to lean on,” she re- 
sumed ; “someone to guide her.” 

“I’m not sure that she’d care about that” her 
visitor protested, with a short laugh. 

“She always — liked you — she likes you still. The 
king can do no wrong,” she urged, insistently. 

“He would do her a great wrong if he asked her 
to be his queen to silence lying tongues. A gay 
young fellow of five-and-twenty, who dances well 
and is a good polo player, is far more in Angel’s 
line that I am — even supposing she would have 
me — which she would not.” Here Mrs. Gordon 
made a gesture of dissent. “I’m too settled in my 
ways. After a man passes the twenties, and gets on 
into the thirties without marrying, he does not want 
a wife — she’s a sort of extra.” 


ANGEL 


204 

‘‘What heresy,” cried his listener, indignantly. 

“Besides, you know, I — was once — in love with 
another girl.” 

“Oh, yes; but that was twelve years ago,” said 
his listener, quickly; “she is no girl now. You 
cannot pretend you have not got over that. We 
all know that men’s hearts, like crabs’ claws, grow 
again.” 

“What heresy,” he repeated, with a laugh; “but, 
come, Mrs. Gordon, let us be serious. Surely you 
can suggest some nice retired family in a hill 
station who would receive Angel? I’ll allow her 
four hundred a year — a family with girls pre- 
ferred.” 

“No,” she replied; “for although Mrs. Plant’s 
hints are abominable falsehoods, her lie has had 
three weeks’ start. Whilst you have been absent it 
has been travelling rapidly, and growing like a 
snowball. How are you to overtake it? and what 
family of girls would receive a young woman — with 
a — story?” The lady’s methods were cruel, but it 
was all for the good of the subject, and his ultimate 
happiness; the end justified the means. “Angela’s 
name has been bandied about; you must change it 
from Miss to Mrs.” 

“I’ll be ” he began, and pulled himself up. “I 

shall go straight off to Mrs. Plant, and cram her 
words down her throat, and make her eat them. If 
she were a man, I declare, I would flog her. What 
is her tale?’^ 

“Merely a hill idyll — which she discovered one 
stormy evening.” 

“But Angel came out in the Arabia; she had only 


“THINK IT OVER” 


205 

the start of Mrs. Flant by about one hundred mo- 
ments, and there are two hundred witnesses to prove 
it.” 

“True, but if you make a stir, you stir up mud,” 
was Mrs. Gordon’s damping rejoinder. “You will 
make matters worse. At present, talk is confined 
within a certain limited radius; surely you don’t 
wish Angel to be the talk of India?” 

Here came Angel running, in a flowing, white 
gown, with a note in her hand. She was accom- 
panied by two frolicking puppies, and looked like 
the spirit of youth. 

“Good morning again, Philip,” she said; then 
glancing at her friend, she continued, “I declare, you 
two are like a couple of conspirators — where is the 
dark lantern ? Who is to be the victim ?” 

“You are,” was Mrs. Gordon’s unexpected reply. 
“We are meditating carrying you off into camp for 
six weeks.” 

“How delightful — there’s nothing I shall enjoy so 
much. Are you going to invite Philip?” glancing 
at him. 

“I don’t think I can get away,” he stammered — 
“at least, not for more than a couple of days at a 
time.” 

“I always had an idea that there was next to no 
work in India ; that it was all racing and polo, and 
dancing and flirting.” 

“Well, my dear child, you see you were wrong,” 
said Mrs. Gordon. “Who is the note from, my 
dear ?” 

“Only a line from Miss Lennox, to say that she 
and her sister regret that they cannot come over to 


2o6 


ANGEL 


have a game of tennis this evening — such a funny 
stiff little note,” and she tendered it to her hostess 
between two fingers, whilst Mrs. Gordon’s and 
Major Gascoigne’s eyes met in a glance of quick 
significance. 

;|« :|« * * * * 

As Major Gascoigne was walking home across 
the parade-ground, a pony-carriage and pair of fat 
Pegu ponies drew up on the road, and awaited him. 
Then a lady’s head was poked out from under the 
hood, and a smiling face, crowned by an Ellwood 
helmet, said: 

'‘So pleased to see you back again.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins,” he rejoined. 

“I want to be the first to congratulate you on your 
beautiful cousin — she is lovely — everyone is talking 
of her, and no wonder. And when is it to be?” 

“When is — what to be?” he asked stiffly. 

“Oh, come, come, you need not play the ostrich 
with me,” and with a laugh and a flip at her ponies, 
the lady rattled rapidly away, and subsequently 
bragged of her encounter. 

Angel’s guardian frequently visited to the Com- 
missioner’s bungalow. He came to dine, to early 
tea, to ride, to accompany Angel and Mrs. Gordon to 
church or the band. Angel was radiantly happy, 
and, thanks to her friend’s precautions, totally un- 
conscious of the net which was closing round herself 
and Philip. Mrs. Gordon was merely an interested 
looker-on, she saw both sides of the drama, she was 
both before and behind the scenes. On one side 
there was Major Gascoigne, restrained, reserved, 
reluctant, and yet who could resist the charm of the 


THINK IT OVER’’ 


207 

daily companionship of the delightful girl who was 
his ward? There was Angel, whose whole mind 
seemed to be centred in the wish to please Philip — 
and to wonder what he thought of her ? 

Public opinion was favourable to the marriage — 
public opinion was strong. Those who envied Major 
Gascoigne his careless bachelor life, those who 
resented his lack of reciprocity, those mothers whom 
he had disappointed, all desired to hurry him to the 
altar. 

He could resist, but he had decided not to resist, 
for, after all, Angel was the most beautiful and 
charming girl he knew. She was unspoiled, he 
believed that she cared for him, and that he could 
make her happy. 

Under these reassuring reflections, he decided to 
accept his fate — Angel. It was not a hard fate, a 
fate much envied of many, and particularly — of all 
people — by Shafto. It was true that he had spoken 
of marriage as a mere ‘‘episode” in a man’s life — he 
trusted the opinion would never reach Angel’s ears. 
He was not madly, wildly, in love, no — but he 
thought he would be lucky if she became his wife. 

He would prefer to remain unmarried for the 
next ten years, and carve out his career unweighted 
with an encumbrance. Truly, these were very cold- 
blooded ideas to be harboured by the lover of a 
bewitching beauty of nineteen. On the other hand, 
when he became grey, and stiff in the joints, and 
the meridian of life and its glories had waned, he 
would be nothing but a lonely, leather-faced veteran, 
with not a soul belonging to him, and with no one 
to whom he could leave his money, except Angel’s 


2o8 


ANGEL 


children. Again the charm of his independent life 
rose into his vision, his happy, quiet hours, his be- 
loved book, his absorbing interest for his work. 
Must this all be relinquished? Was it true, as a 
comrade had declared, that his heart was composed 
of an entrenchment tool? Swayed this way, and 
that, Philip was ashamed of his vacillation. 

For once he found himself in strange conflict with 
his own character. The faculty of promptly making 
up his mind — what had become of it? Fresh from 
the charm of Angel’s voice and manner, he deter- 
mined to speak the very next day. 

But when the morning came, the cool, clear morn- 
ing, it brought counsel, it brought a multitude of 
papers that absorbed all his thoughts and time. 
After several hours of this detachment, his mind 
returned to the attitude of indecision, his ideas were 
again readjusted. 

Whilst Philip was thus balancing his feeling and 
weighing the pros and cons, the Gordons went away 
into camp, for the Commissioner’s usual cold 
weather tour, and they took Angel with them. 


CHAPTER XXII 


WHITE ELEPHANT AND A WHITE ROSE^^ 

The tour of a Commissioner in camp in the cold 
weather means a march from place to place, visiting 
certain villages and districts, holding official courts 
for the inhabitants, granting interviews, receiving 
petitions, looking into taxation and the working of 
the code, inspecting new works — such as canals and 
roads — and perhaps opening a local hospital, or 
attending some high native feast. The tour is in- 
tended to bring the great man into touch with the 
people. The camp is struck every morning soon 
after dawn, and the party ride on to the next en- 
campment (there are invariably two sets of tents). 
Here they arrive in time for early breakfast, after 
which the chief transacts business, then comes the 
evening ride, a little shooting, a group round the log 
fire, and early to bed. Such is the usual programme, 
and as far as the working portion was concerned, an 
exact epitome of Mr. Gordon’s routine, but he rarely 
went for an evening ride, and seldom joined his wife 
and her guest by the camp fire, and the two ladies 
appeared gracefully resigned to his desertion. 
Donald Gordon’s manners were gruff, his conversa- 
tion monosyllabic, his opinions startling; for in- 
stance, he had been heard to suggest the lethal cham- 
ber for half the women who were born! By a 
strange paradox, he burnt much midnight oil, writ- 


210 


ANGEL 


ing his great Persian epic, in praise of the beautiful 
Shireen — Queen of Chrosroes of the Golden Spears 
— and her lover, Ferhad the sculptor. But this 
streak of romance in his character never appeared in 
broad daylight; the midnight poet, with his rushing 
pen, his eyes aflame, one hand grasping his red, 
flowing beard, was by midday surly, hard-headed, 
rugged Donald Gordon, the clear-sighted, prompt, 
able administrator, who managed the great area 
over which he ruled, and his various collectors and 
subordinates, with amazing address ; who said aloud 
things that others scarcely dared to whisper, was a 
pillar of the Empire, and a genius in his way. 

Angel Gascoigne, who shared in all the pomp 
and circumstance of the Commissioner’s semi-royal 
progress, enjoyed this, her first experience of a 
camp, most thoroughly. The life was interesting, it 
was novel, it never hasted, never rested — what more 
could any girl desire? The beautiful tract through 
which they passed, be it snipe district or tiger dis- 
trict, waving crops, or forest lands, impressed the 
new-comer with its free atmosphere, the Biblical 
simplicity of the lives of the people, odd bits of folk- 
lore, and the weird stories connected with their 
camping-grounds, each and all appealed to Angel’s 
quick imagination. She and her hostess enjoyed 
many rides and walks, explorations, and tHe-a-tete 
discussions, though occasionally a police officer or a 
collector joined the camp for a day or two, and then 
the talk at dinner veered towards the revenue, the 
floods, or the records. Now and then Major Gas- 
coigne cut across the country, caught up the party, 
and remained a short time. Angel hailed these visits 


A WHITE ELEPHANT 


21 1 


with a deep but secret joy — though he by no means 
gave her the lion’s share of his attention — it was a 
solitude d trois. He brought books and papers, 
which he read to the ladies as they worked under the 
trees; he brought them scraps of news, the latest 
station joke; he brought with him a quickened en- 
joyment of the lazy, long days, and when he de- 
parted, he left them the anticipation of his return. 

One evening Mrs. Gordon was detained by a ser- 
vant just as they were about to start for a stroll, 
and Major Gascoigne and his cousin went on alone. 
They left the white tents behind them, and sauntered 
down to a ruined well, such as one sees in the prints 
of Rebecca, or the Woman of Samaria. When they 
had reached it, Angel sat down on a broken step and 
said, “Let us wait here — she won’t be long,” nod- 
ding towards the distant camp. “I have something 
to show you,” she continued, looking up at her com- 
panion. “I have had a long letter from grand- 
mamma this mail.” 

“Really?” he exclaimed; “and what has she to 
say ?” 

“That she misses me dreadfully, and is sorry for 
our quarrel. If I will forgive her, she will forgive 
me, and will be glad if I will return to live with her 
— for nothing.” 

Gascoigne gave a faint exclamation of surprise. 

“She will lodge my passage money at once,” con- 
tinued the girl. “I have only to send a wire — perhaps 
you would read her letter?” and she held it up to 
him. Philip took it and read it over, slowly ; Lady 
Augusta’s writing was scratchy and illegible, but he 
gathered that she was devoted to her grandchild, and 


212 ANGEL 

the whole epistle breathed a passionate longing to 
see her once more. 

Yes, it was all very well, he said to himself, as he 
mechanically folded up the letter, but why should 
an injurious influence be exerted over this fresh 
young life? Angel, although such an old, worldly- 
wise child of nine, was, thanks to Miss Morton, and 
a curious twist in her own character, as simple as 
nine, at the age of nineteen, simple-minded and sin- 
cere, for all her gay flirtations and her physical sor- 
ceries. 

Yet this letter was the key to his difficulties. If 
Angel returned home to her grandmother, the Lady 
Augusta Gascoigne, who dared lift up a voice 
against her? — and he was free! He looked at the 
girl’s profile against the crimson sunset, and asked 
himself. Was he free? Had he not, like all her 
acquaintance, fallen under the spell of this charming, 
bewitching, destroying Angel ? What was she 
thinking about as she sat motionless, her face turned 
fixedly towards the West — that she would return to 
the West once more? No, no, no. He would never 
suffer her to pass into Lady Augusta’s hands again. 

Suddenly the impulse came upon him there and 
then — he determined to speak. 

‘‘What do you say?” she asked. “Have you any- 
thing to suggest — any alternative?” and her eyes 
were full of frank earnestness. 

“Yes,” he replied, “that you remain out here.” 

“How ? Do you mean with Mrs. Gordon ? — what 
an awful incubus for her — always.” 

“No — ^Angel ” and, as he spoke, he took off 


A WHITE ELEPHANT 213 

his cap and twisted it in his hands, and st(X)d before 
her bareheaded. “But as — my wife/' 

“Wife,’’ she repeated, and a flood of colour 
rushed into her face. “Of course, this is a joke,” she 
exclaimed, rising and speaking with a firm, almost 
passionate dignity. 

“No — ^you and I are old friends, Angel— I — see 
— I’ve rather startled you — ^but I’ve been considering 
this question for some time. I’m seventeen years 
older than you are — I’m not the sort of lover — or 
husband you might naturally expect — ^but I’ll do — 
my very best to make you happy.” 

All the time he was speaking Angel looked at him 
steadily, her colour had faded, she now was white to 
her lips. As he concluded, she cast down her eyes, 
and seemed to address the stones at her feet, as she 
whispered in a strange, subdued voice: “Why do 
you say all this? You don’t love me, cousin Philip 
— and I — look for so much love — because I’ve had 
so little.” Then raising her eyes by a strenuous act 
of will, and speaking in a firmer tone, she continued : 

“You think I am a foolish, impulsive schoolgirl — 
you wish to give me a home, but grandmamma 
offers me the same — a home, and to make me 
happy.” 

“I believe I can do better than your grand- 
mother.” 

“And that would not be saying much, would it?” 
she retorted. “I gathered from the way people 
looked, and hinted — you know I was always clever 
at finding things out — that it was very wrong of me 
to have rushed headlong to India. I placed you in 
a dilemma — ^you were quite at your wits’ end to 


ANGEL 


214 

know how to dispose of your white elephant — and 
now, you are asking me to marry you — and thus 
settle the difficulty/’ 

Her faltering words cast a revealing glare on the 
situation — there was absolute truth in what she said. 

‘‘I am not,” and she caught her breath sharply, 
“as silly as I seem — I expect — in short — I will have 
more than you can give. You cannot make me happy 
unless you love me — what you offer me is imitation. 
It is not big enough, or strong enough, to hold me — 
I want real love, not make-believe. I — am sure — it 
has cost you a great deal — to— to ” she hesi- 

tated, “speak ! and I thank you — but I will go home 
by next mail, and live with grandmamma after all.” 

As she came to this decision and a full stop, Angel 
sat down breathless and trembling. But now that 
the treasure was slipping from his grasp, the prize 
not so easily attained as he supposed, of course Gas- 
coigne closed his hand upon it greedily. 

“Angel, listen to me,” he cried impetuously. 
“Don’t talk of make-believes, and your grand- 
mother, and such wild nonsense — I do love you — 
not in a romantic story-book fashion, but sincerely 
and faithfully in my own way. I was engaged once 
to a girl — you know?” 

“Yes,” she assented sharply. 

“That came to an end ten years ago. You are 
the only woman I shall ever love again — I swear.” 
He spoke in a tone of grave restrained emotion. 

Angel still sat with her eyes on the ground, and 
made no sign whatever. Truly, this Angel was a 
stranger, an alien, and ill-understood ! 

“It was for your own sake I have been holding 


A WHITE ELEPHANT 215 

back,” he resumed with an effort — was he sure that 
he was speaking the truth? “I am a busy, self- 
centred man — I live in a groove — I feared your gay 
young life would be dull — with me.” 

'‘Never dull with you, Philip — you know that,” 
she murmured under her breath. 

"Will you think it over, and give me an answer 
when I come out on Wednesday?” 

Angel made no reply. Her cousin looked at her 
downcast eyes, her twitching nostrils, and resumed, 
"If you wish to return home, of course I will do all 
in my power to help you.” As he continued his voice 
was less steady, some inward barrier seemed to have 
given way under a confused pressure of emotion. 
"If you decide to stay — and I hope from my heart 
you will — then,” and he stooped and kissed her 
hand, "when I come again, wear a flower in your 
dress.” 

****** 

Mrs. Gordon was sitting under the fly of her tent 
engrossed in a novel, when Major Gascoigne gal- 
loped up on Wednesday afternoon, having covered 
the forty miles which lay between Marwar and the 
camp in an extraordinarily short time. He had three 
horses posted on the road, and the bay Arab he rode 
was in a lather. Why this unusual haste? was Mrs. 
Gordon’s mental interrogation. The reply came in 
a flash of prophetic insight. She interpreted her vis- 
itor’s strange air of repressed excitement, his reck- 
less ride ; he had spoken to Angel, and had come for 
her reply. 

"Where is Angel?” he asked, as soon as he had 
dismounted and exchanged a few words of greeting. 


2i6 


ANGEL 


'‘Down by the well near the tamarinds, reading. 
Perhaps you will take her these letters?” suggested 
clever Mrs. Gordon, selecting two from a budget he 
had delivered ; “and bring her back to tea.” 

“All right,” he replied, “I’ll be postman;” and 
without further parley, but with suspicious alacrity, 
he departed. In a short time he came in sight of 
Angel. She was sitting under the shade of an 
ancient tamarind — no tree in all the world is more 
beautiful ; a book lay unheeded on her lap. 

Would it be yes ? — or would it be no ? Philip was 
astonished at the fluttering of his nerves, the thump- 
ing of his heart. As he approached nearer, Angel 
stood up, and then came slowly to meet him. He 
looked at her eagerly; there were red roses in her 
cheeks — and a white one in her dress ! 


CHAPTER XXIII 


ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 

A TELEGRAPH peon and a mounted orderly are 
passing through an entrance gate on which we 
find a board inscribed “Lieutenant-Colonel Gas- 
coigne, R.E.” It leads to a large bungalow, one of 
the highest rented in Marwar, and all its surround- 
ings proclaim in a reserved and well-bred fashion 
that expense is no object; from the long row of well- 
filled stables — of which we catch a glimpse — to the 
smart, white-clothed servant, with silver crests on 
belt and turban, who runs briskly down the steps 
and extends a salver for our card. But we are not 
disposed to make a formal call; we have merely 
dropped in to see Philip and Angel, who have been 
man and wife for two years. They are to be found 
in a great cool room, at opposite ends of a hospitably- 
sized breakfast-table. Angel sits before the teapot 
in a listless manner; a portly fox-terrier squarely 
squatting on his haunches begs from her in vain. 

Philip, in undress uniform, is reading a blue offi- 
cial, with a wrinkle between his brows. A pile of 
open telegrams lie at his right hand, whilst his break- 
fast cools. One realises at a glance that Philip is ab- 
sorbed — that Angel is bored. 

“Sit down, John,” she said, sternly addressing the 
dog; “you have had two breakfasts already; you 
have no shame.” 

“I say,” exclaimed her husband, suddenly folding 
up his document; “this is a nice business; I have 
to start for Garhwal at once.” 


2i8 


ANGEL 


Angel gave a sharp exclamation. 

“There has been a tremendous landslip in the 
mountains, about a hundred and thirty miles north 
of Nani Tal.;’ 

“But if it is over, what can you do ?” she protested. 

“Prevent more damage, if possible. It seems to 
have been a unique catastrophe; a whole hill, four 
thousand feet high, has toppled over and jammed up 
the end of the valley, and turned the river Bela- 
Gunga into a lake five miles long.” 

“Does that matter? These hill Tals are so 
picturesque.” 

“Picturesque!” impatiently. “It won’t be so 
picturesque when the snows melt and the rains 
come, and the lake which is filling slowly now bursts 
and floods a hundred and fifty miles of country.” 

“Oh, do you think it will be as bad as that ?” 

“I can tell you after I have inspected the place. 
I’m afraid I must be off to-morrow. I shall have a 
heap of things to get and do.” He paused to summon 
a servant, and give an order in fluent Hindustani; 
“it’s a God-forsaken spot, where there are no sup- 
plies,” he resumed. 

“Can’t I go with you? Do take me for once,” 
pleaded Angel. “I don’t mind roughing it — I should 
enjoy it.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” he 
interrupted. “There is scarcely a goat track; there 
will be little or no food — I’ll sleep in a native hut 
and be out all day. It is a wild, lonely spot — im- 
possible for a lady.” 

“You never take me,” remonstrated Angel; “you 
volunteer, too — you like going.” 


A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 219 

do — it’s my work,” he answered coolly, now 
standing up and rapidly collecting his letters. Then 
he glanced over at his wife. 

‘‘Look here, old lady. I’ll try and get back in three 
weeks. You must not take it to heart.” 

“I won’t — if you will promise me one thing.” 

“Very well. I’ll do my best, only” — now beckon- 
ing to his syce — “look sharp.” 

“Take me, the next time you go out in camp — 
promise?” 

“All right, I will — if it is possible,” he assented 
briskly. “Warn Hassan — he has to come with me 
and order in stores — usual thing. I must be off — 
I shall not be back to tiffin,” and he hurried out. 

“How keen he is to go, John, isn’t he?” said 
Angel, leaning back in her chair, and bending her 
head so as to catch a glimpse of a rider and a bright 
bay horse dashing off from under the porch. 

“Now I wonder what is to become of you, and 
me, and Sam?” 

Their fate was speedily arranged. Angel went 
once more on tour with the Gordons; she was too 
young and attractive to be left at home alone, and 
since it was impossibe for her husband to take her 
with him into Garhwal, Mrs. Gordon, who was ex- 
tremely fond of Angel, and keenly enjoyed her com- 
panionship, carried her off into camp. 

On the present occasion they were a party of four, 
which included Mr. Lindsay, collector of the district 
through which they were moving. As the Commis- 
sioner was obliged to consult with him for the pur- 
pose of inquiries into the loss of crops in these parts, 
owing to great floods, and hailstones, and the 


220 


ANGEL 


consequent required reduction of the demand for 
revenue. It was a serious business ; the district had 
suffered heavily, the tax-gatherer must withhold 
his hand, and Mr. Lindsay’s presence and assistance 
were essential. He had been a month in the camp, 
but he was an old friend of the Gordons — years ago 
Mrs. Gordon had nursed him through a dangerous 
attack of enteric, and they had been intimate ever 
since. 

Moreover, he was one of Mr. Gordon’s favourite 
collectors, unmarried, brilliantly clever, first man of 
his year, an exceedingly welcome figure in society. 
Nor did the fact that he had golden prospects detract 
from his popularity. He was a tall, spare, clean- 
shaven man, with a slight stoop, a square forehead 
and jaw, wavy chestnut hair, deep china blue eyes, 
and a well-cut, eloquent mouth; indeed, it was 
almost as eloquent as his clever blue eyes. He could 
talk well, think closely, act wisely ; but he was neither 
an athlete nor a sportsman; every snipe in its jeel, or 
tiger in the Terai, might rest in peace without fear 
of Alan Lindsay. His tastes were social and aca- 
demic, and found other outlets than a spinning fish- 
ing-reel, or central-fire cartridges. 

One day, by a strange chance — in the whirligig of 
time — Angel found herself back in the same neigh- 
bourhood where she had accepted her guardian as 
her husband. She walked down to the old well and 
the tamarind trees one afternoon quite alone. An- 
gel had come there on purpose to meditate and 
review the past, and found the locality absolutely 
unchanged. There were the same tufts of grass, the 
same cracked stones, the same red sunset — ^possibly 


A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 221 

the very same black ants. One might have quitted 
the scene but yesterday. She, too, was but little 
altered; only for the wedding ring on her finger it 
might almost be the very self-same Angel who had 
pledged her troth at this spot two years previously. 
She sat with her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed on 
the stretching plains, her thoughts very far away, 
as anyone could see, contemplating with an inward 
gaze the last two years. She recalled the whirl, the 
excitement, the importance of being a bride, a mar- 
ried girl with a fine house of her own, lovely pres- 
ents, lovely frocks, tribes of friends, servants, car- 
riages, horses — and a husband. 

A domestic sovereign, her wishes were law. She 
was indulged and cherished in every possible way, 
but at the back of her mind there was a want ; Philip, 
her first friend, did not love her as she loved 
him — she had bestowed her love with a fatal prodi- 
gality, whilst he merely cared for her as a pretty 
child, whom it was his pleasure to protect and in- 
dulge. Undoubtedly in his eyes — no matter what 
he said to the contrary — he still seemed to see her as 
a girl in a pigtail, instead of a woman who was 
clothed in the dignity of marriage. Nor had he 
attempted to bridge the gap of years — he was gen- 
erally so serious — would it not have been wiser to 
have returned to grandmamma, who took nothing 
seriously but the pleasures of life ! and — perhaps she 
would have married the young baron who had 
adored her. Surely it was better to be the one who 
was booted and spurred, than the one who was sad- 
dled and bridled. 

Philip was entirely engrossed in his work. He 


222 


ANGEL 


had developed into an official of importance. His 
life seemed to belong not to himself, much less to 
her, but to the Imperial Government; telegraph 
peons, mounted orderlies, and busy messengers 
crowded round his office, and it was often seven 
o'clock in the evening ‘ when he appeared in her 
sitting-room, looking utterly weary and fagged. 
Nevertheless she was bound to confess that he never 
forgot to ask her how she had spent the day? who 
had been to see her? whom she had been to see? how 
she had amused herself? This was her role; she 
was to play, whilst he worked. Then when they 
went out to dinners he scarcely glanced at her dress, 
and, of course, during the evening she never ex- 
changed a word with him. Little did his partners 
guess how his wife envied them! Clever men and 
clever women absorbed all her husband’s attention 
as their right — and she was deserted. 

Philip never appeared to realise that she looked 
for anything beyond a pretty home, pretty frocks, 
horses and dogs, flowers and books, and a running 
stream of amusement. He was thoughtful of her 
health and comfort, most particular in the choice of 
her servants and horses, and then, having loaded her 
with luxuries, he withdrew into his work, and it 
never seemed to occur to him that her life lacked 
anything, least of all his own companionship. An- 
gel was proud, and she kept her sorrow to herself. 
Only on one occasion her feelings had broken their 
prison, and she had thrown out a hint to Mrs. Gor- 
don, who promptly said : 

"‘Where, oh Princess, is the crumpled rose- 
leaf? What is your desire? What do you lack?” 


A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 223 

“Love/^ 

‘‘My dear Angel !” she ejaculated. 

“Yes — Fve never had enough,” she answered. “I 
feel something always starving and crying in my 
heart,” she answered with a slight sob, and eyes full 
of tears. 

“You silly, sentimental goose!” cried Mrs. Gor- 
don. “You mean the sort of stuff one reads about 
in poetry, that flames and flares up, and goes out like 
a fire of straw?” 

“No,” rejoined the girl in a tone of repressed 
passion, “but a love that cannot endure separation — 
that turns away from everything in the world to you 
— that thinks of you — dreams of you — cannot live 
without you — and would die for you.” 

“My goodness, Angel!” exclaimed her friend, 
aghast; “but,” she went on reflectively, “I believe I 
understand what you mean, though I have never ex- 
perienced it myself, and” — with a short sigh — 
“never shall. I am thirty-six years of age, and I 
shall go to my grave never having seen what you 
speak of. The love you dream of is rare — it never 
came into my life.” 

“And what do you accept instead?” asked the 
girl sharply. 

“Oh — community of interests — mutual forbear- 
ance and respect.” 

“Which means that you forbear — and all the 
world respects,” broke in the old impulsive Angel. 
“Oh, Elinor,” startled at her companion’s face, “for- 
give me.” 

“Certainly, my dear; but of what have you to 
complain ?” 


ANGEL 


224 

“Philip/’ was the unexpected answer. “He treats 
me as a pretty petted child, who has to be cared for, 
amused, and supplied with toys.” 

“You forget that he has his work, his career. 
‘Love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’tis woman’s 
whole existence.’ Do you want him to sit holding 
your hand, and swearing daily that he adores you ?” 

“Yes, I do,” was her reckless reply. “I should 
never be tired of hearing it.” Her companion looked 
at her helplessly. 

“But, my dear child. Colonel Gascoigne has out- 
grown that age ; he loves you very dearly.” 

“As one does a canary bird,” broke in Angel ; “I’m 
a woman — not a domestic pet.” 

“You are both,” said Mrs. Gordon. 

“I’ve tried my very best to make him jealous.” 

“What? Oh, Angel, you must be mad. That 
was playing with matches in a powder-mill. Do you 
want to ruin your life? Pray what was the result 
of your experiment?” 

“Ignominious failure. Philip likes me to be pop- 
ular and admired. I thought he would be annoyed 
if I went out driving with Major Shafto, who makes 
amends for his former hatred by an unbounded ap- 
preciation. I rode and drove with him, I danced 
with him five times running, and sat out conspic- 
uously where Philip must see me; and all he said 
for my trouble and hours of boredom was, T’m so 
glad to find that you and old Billy are such capital 
friends. ’Twas never thus in childhood’s hour !’ and 
he laughed. I declare, I could have thrown a plate 
at him. Then I flirted desperately with General 
Warner, such an old darling! and Philip merely re- 


A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 225 

marked, ‘My dear child, the General is enchanted ,, 
with you — poor old boy — he has a daughter of your 
age at home. IVe not seen him so happy and 
so lively for ages.’ Now,” concluded Angel with a 
dramatic gesture, “what can you do with a husband 
like that?” 

“I should leave him severely alone and try no 
more experiments. Pray tell me, Angel, could you 
be jealous?” 

“I should think so,” she answered in a flash, 
“furiously, fiendishly jealous; but that is a secret.” 

From this long digression we must return to An- 
gel, where she was perched on the edge of the old 
well, thinking hard, as she rested her chin on her 
hand and watched with abstracted eyes the long line 
of cattle going towards their village, amid the usual 
cloud of powdery white dust. Suddenly she sat 
erect; she saw Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay 
approaching her. What good friends they were! 
and yet people declared that there was no such thing 
as friendship between a man and a woman, that 
platonics were invariably platonic on one side alone. 
What would these scoffers say to Elinor Gordon and 
Alan Lindsay ? 'Of course the fact of Mrs. Gordon 
having literally dragged Alan Lindsay out of the 
jaws of death was a strong and solid foundation for 
their liking — a woman always feels tenderly towards 
the patient she has nursed from infantile weakness 
back to strong, manly vigour; and they had so 
much in common, their minds seemed to reflect one 
another, they sometimes said the same thing, they 
liked the same books and authors, they held similar 
opinions on various interesting questions, and when 


226 ANGEL 

they differed, it was delightful to hear them argue ; it 
was like two expert swordsmen fighting with foils — 
and occasionally without them. They would talk and 
urge and exhort, whilst Mr. Gordon fell asleep after 
dinner and snored lustily in the tent verandah, or re- 
turned to his great Persian poem; and Angel, who 
took but scanty part in these brilliant debates, being 
generally put to the sword at once, sat and knitted a 
sock, full of thoughts of Philip. 

Angel watched the advancing pair with the 
critical, far-seeing eyes of her childhood. How 
lovely Elinor was, with her soft dark eyes, her high- 
bred air. How happy she looked, almost radiant. 
They made a distinguished looking couple. They 
seemed born for one another. What a pity that — 
that — well, did Alan Lindsay ever think it was a 
pity? Was it honestly friendship only, on his part? 
Did she fancy that sometimes his voice and eyes — 
oh, how hateful ! How dared she imagine such vile 
things? Was it possible that anyone would think 
of Elinor as aught but a martyr and a saint ? Never- 
theless Angel felt the waking of a presentiment as 
the couple arrived face to face with her, and within 
speaking distance. 

'‘How solemn you look — what is the matter, Mrs. 
Gascoigne?” called out Lindsay, "you might be 
Patience on a monument, or an angel looking for 
truth at the bottom of this well.” 

"Am I — so — solemn?” 

"I should think so,” said Mrs. Gordon, laughing. 
"You look as if you were trying to stare into the 
future. Pray what did you see — what were you 
thinking about? — in short, a penny for your 
thoughts.” 


A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS 227 

Angel felt herself colouring warmly ; what would 
that vivacious, handsome couple say, were she to 
take them at their word, and tell them that she had 
grave misgivings of their five-years’-old friendship ? 

“No, no,” she stammered with an effort at a joke, 
“my thoughts are not in the market — they are too 
valuable to be bestowed.” 

“I can guess where they were, my young Penelope 
— up in the Garhwal,” said her friend. “And now 
to return good for evil, I beg to inform you that we 
were talking about you.” 

“What have you been saying?” she asked. “If it 
is bad, you won’t tell me, of course?” 

“We were calling the roll of our acquaintance, and 
have come to the conclusion that you are the most 
to be envied person we know in all the wide world.” 

“I?” with a short little laugh; “you are not in 
earnest ?” 

“Certainly we are,” replied Mr. Lindsay; “and 
you say that with such an ungrateful air. You can- 
not deny that you have youth, health, sufficient 
wealth — the beauty I leave you to fill in yourself — 
many friends — and a devoted husband.” 

“Oh, yes, you mean a husband devoted to his pro- 
fession,” she answered with a smile. Was Mrs. 
Gascoigne in jest or earnest now? and Lindsay 
looked at her narrowly. 

“We did not come out like the native women to 
spend our time holding forth by the well,” put in 
Mrs. Gordon impatiently. “Angel, the word is — 
march. You must take a good stiff walk. Let us 
go over to the village,” pointing to a far distant 
clump of trees, “and call on the weaver’s wife.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE SOOTHSAYER 

Week by week the great camp moved on in its 
stately, deliberate fashion, through its accustomed 
districts. There was not as much variety in the daily 
life as in the ever changing surroundings. Donald 
Gordon was absorbed in heavy official work by day, 
and heavy unofficial work by night. Mrs. Gordon 
and Alan Lindsay were unconsciously absorbed in 
one another, and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne — with her 
old head on young shoulders — appeared to be ab- 
sorbed in her own thoughts. She was curiously 
silent and grave ; not a trace of gay, vivacious, chat- 
tering Angel remained. 

Mr. Lindsay and Mrs. Gordon mutually wondered 
at the transformation, and solemnly compared notes. 
Mrs. Gordon attributed her friend’s depression to the 
absence of her husband, whilst Alan Lindsay de- 
clared that it was due to the absence of amusements. 
How little did either of them suppose that the true 
cause of Mrs. Gascoigne’s low spirits lay in them- 
selves. Angel’s quick suspicion, which had sprung 
to existence by the old well, had grown from that 
hour, till it became a strong, able-bodied fact, which 
thrust itself on an unwilling confidante, and made 
its voice heard; it declared lustily that there was 
more than mere gratitude and pure idyllic friend- 
ship in Alan Lindsay’s attitude towards Elinor Gor- 


THE SOOTHSAYER 


229 

don; something in his voice, in his manner, told 
tales. Was it possible that at thirty-six years of age, 
love, strong, impassioned love, had overtaken her 
friend after all ? But no, Elinor dared not entertain 
him; she was a woman who would bar such an ill- 
timed visitor out — yes, with her own hand, she who 
had been the adviser, comforter, example of so 
many, whose influence as a good woman radiated 
afar, she to whom all the girls and young men came 
with their difflculties, drawn by her personal mag- 
netism, who helped so many over “the bad places’’ 
of life, to whom everyone looked up. The noble, un- 
selfish wife of tyrannical Donald Gordon, was she 
likely to fall from her high estate ? As soon the moon 
and stars. Yet as the couple talked together so ear- 
nestly and so exclusively, the truth became more and 
more evident — it came and stared Angel in the face, 
and frightened her; she felt as if she were looking 
on at some terrible human tragedy, and of which she 
was the sole and helpless spectator. This man, Alan 
Lindsay, had found his fate too late; his fate was 
a jewel belonging to one who never valued it. And 
Elinor? To her thoughts and feelings Angel had 
no clue; sometimes her spirits were unusually gay, 
her laugh ringing and girlish ; sometimes when she 
and Angel sat alone she looked almost old and hag- 
gard ; her book or her work lay forgotten in her lap, 
her gaze was absent and introspective. Sometimes, 
as she sewed, she heaved a sudden but profound sigh. 

Thus they passed their days, and moved on from 
camping-ground to camping-ground, through the 
poppy-fields, and the cane crops of the fairest prov- 
ince ; the four who sat at table together, two whom 


ANGEL 


230 

the inevitable had overtaken, the surly, unconscious 
husband, and the conscious looker-on. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

Occasionally the camp was pitched within a ride 
of some little station, and visitors cantered out to 
early tea or tiffin. One day Mrs. Gordon entertained 
three guests, a man in the Opium (the worst paid 
department in India), his wife, and a girl who was 
on a visit with them, a pretty little person with a 
round baby face, fluffy hair, a pair of hard blue eyes, 
and an insatiable appetite for excitement. The party 
sat out in the shade of the peepul trees after tea, 
within view of the camp train — the horses and cam- 
els at their pickets, the dogs, the cows, the groups of 
servants, the scarlet and gold chuprassis lounging 
about waiting for orders, and the crowd of petition- 
ers and villagers besieging the office tent. 

Miss Cuffe, the spoiled beauty of a tiny station, 
condescended to remark that the scene was quite 
imposing and picturesque. 

“Almost like what one would see at Drury Lane.” 

“O horror ! the pomp and glory of the Sirdar, as 
embodied in a great Indian encampment, compared 
to a pantomime.” 

“I suppose you miss the theatres. Miss Cuffe?” 
said Lindsay, who had been released after a long 
day’s work. 

“You are right,” she answered with a coquettish 
simper. “I do like a show. I did all the plays before 
I came out.” 

“And we have nothing to offer you but snake- 
charmers, magic wallahs, and fortune-tellers. I 
believe there is one in camp now, a renowned Fakir 


THE SOOTHSAYER 231 

who lives in this part of the world; his fame has 
travelled to Agra.” 

^‘Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him,” pleaded 
Miss Cuffe. 

“But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; 
he generally prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, 
under the influence of Bhang.” 

“I don’t care in the least,” she cried recklessly. 
“Do — do send for him. What do you say, Mrs. 
Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?” appealing to them. 

“My fortune is told,” replied Mrs. Gordon. “Fate 
cannot harm me; but have the Fakir by all means, if 
Mr. Lindsay can pursuade him to appear.” 

In another moment two messengers had been 
despatched in search of the soothsayer. Miss Cuffe 
resolved to make the most of the brilliant oppor- 
tunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular col- 
lector, who was said to be next heir to seven thou- 
sand a year. The best way to interest him, thought 
the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and 
his work. 

“I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay,” she remarked 
pathetically; “only just two months in India. Do 
tell me what all the people round here,” waving her 
plump hands, “believe in?” 

“What an immense question !” he exclaimed. “Do 
you mean the peasants ?” 

She nodded her head with an emphasis that was 
impressive, although all the time she was neither 
thinking nor caring about the peasants, but reflect- 
ing that here was a providential occasion for her 
to cement an acquaintance with this charming and 
eligible parti; the coast was clear from rivals ; there 


ANGEL 


232 

was no one to absorb his devotion and claim his 
attention but two stupid married ladies, who had 
been in camp for weeks — and of whom he must be 
so tired. 

''Well, the peasant’s mental horizon is rather 
limited,” said Mr. Lindsay. "He has some sort of 
belief in a Providence whose benevolence is shown 
in restricting malignant heavenly powers from doing 
mischief.” 

"Yes,” assented the girl, though she had not in 
the least grasped what he meant. "And — what 
else?” 

"Oh, well,” said Lindsay, secretly amazed at this 
intelligent social butterfly, "he trusts in a host 
of godlings who inhabit the pile of stones which 
form the village shrine. He believes that he would 
live for ever, were it not that some devil or witch 
plots against his life.” 

"And is that all that he believes in?” questioned 
Miss Cuff e ; and she raised her light blue eyes to her 
informant’s dark ones, with a look of tragic appeal. 

"By no means. He believes that it is good to 
feed a Brahmin, that it is wrong to tell a lie, unless 
to benefit yourself. He believes that if he does an 
impious act he may be reborn as a rat or a worm ; he 
believes that woman is an inferior creature whom 
you may bully with impunity. With a man, you 
must be more careful.” 

"But these are the extremely poor and unedu- 
cated,” broke in Mrs. Gordon. "The more enlight- 
ened are different ; they encourage charity, kindness, 
and simplicity; they are extremely devout — in that 
way they put many of us to shame.” 


THE SOOTHSAYER 


233 

‘‘And the women, how do they live? Have they 
no amusements ?” inquired Miss Cuff e, turning 
pointedly from her hostess to the more attractive 
collector. 

“Amusements? They do not know the meaning 
of the word. They work — I am speaking of the 
peasants — from dawn till dark, helping their hus- 
bands with the cultivation of the land, drawing 
water, cooking, weaving — they are hags at thirty, 
and their only release from drudgery is an occa- 
sional pilgrimage. You may see them marching for 
days packed in a country cart which crawls along 
from week to week and stage to stage; at last they 
reach their goal, Hurdwar — or Benares. They 
bathe and worship and offer sacrifice — it is the one 
event of their lives, and assures their future.’’ 

“One event,” repeated Miss Cuffe. “How utterly 
miserable! — And what are their every-day habits?” 

“Conservative — they wear the same fashion for 
twenty centuries, their food never varies, a little 
pepper and spices, the only relish — the plough, the 
spinning wheel, and loom, remain unchanged in a 
thousand years; of course, I am speaking of the 
villagers; the townsfolk have watches, sewing- 
machines, gramaphones, and all manner of Europe 
goods, and rubbish, but the Ryot has no money or 
time to waste on such luxuries ; it is all work, work, 
work, from generation to generation — the Ryot is 
the mainspring of the Empire.” 

“Poor creatures,” exclaimed Miss Cuffe, “what 
lives of hideous toil. I suppose they don’t know 
what happiness and love mean ?” 

“Oh, yes, they are sufficiently happy when they 


ANGEL 


234 

bring off a good bargain, and they love their plot of 
land, their ancestral acre, with a fierce devouring 
ardour, passing the love of women.’' 

“How much you know,” sighed Miss Cuffe ad- 
miringly ; “how much you tell me, that I never heard 
before.” 

“And here comes one who will possibly impart 
some events which are yet to come,” and Mr. Lind- 
say indicated the tall lanky figure which was advanc- 
ing in the wake of the chuprassis. 

The Fakir was an old man, singularly emaciated. 
He wore a simple loin cloth and a row of huge 
beads; his legs were bandy, his voice was bass, his 
hair matted, in his eyes there was a piercing look 
bordering on madness. He came straight up to 
Lindsay and salaamed, entirely ignoring the opium 
wallah, and the three ladies. 

“Take off your wedding ring, and lend it to me,” 
whispered Miss Cuffe to Angel, “and we will see if 
we cannot puzzle him.” 

“Shall I tell the stars of the Lord Sahib only?” 
asked the Fakir, “and in his ear?” 

“Oh, no,” responded Lindsay, “the stars of the 
company, and one by one, so that all may hear — 
what the fates have in store for them.” 

“Yes, what fun it will be,” said Miss Cuffe. “Mrs. 
Ellis,” to her friend, “will you be done? Do, it will 
be so amusing.” 

“No, thank you,” said the lady, “I am quite will- 
ing to listen to your fortunes, but I beg to decline 
hearing mine.” 

“I have heard that this man is marvellous,” said 


THE SOOTHSAYER 


235 

her husband, ''and greatly feared by all the neigh- 
bours.” 

"Certainly his looks are not attractive,” remarked 
Angel; "he seems to be getting impatient. Shall I 
break the ice — in other words, be done ?” 

There was an immediate chorus of assent, and she 
rose and came forward to where the Fakir was 
squatting. He also rose and drew his lean form to its 
full length. What a contrast the two figures pre- 
sented, as they stood face to face; denizens of the 
East and West. The pretty fair English girl, with 
her dainty white gown, her little vanities of chains 
and laces, her well-groomed air ; and the half-naked 
Fakir, with his mop of tangled hair, his starting 
ribs, his wild black eyes, his chest and forehead 
daubed with ashes, and, as a background to the pair, 
a circle of watching, eager retainers, the big tree 
stems, the white tents, and the flat cultivated plains 
merging into the blue horizon. 

Angel put out her hand ; the fortune-teller glanced 
at it curiously, then he looked up in her face with a 
strenuous stare, and there was a silence only broken 
by Miss Cuffe’s titter. At last it came, a sonorous 
voice speaking as if pronouncing judgment. 

"Oh, yea — thou art a wife.” 

"The servants told,” giggled Miss Cuffe in an 
audible voice. 

"Hush, hush,” expostulated her friend, he is 
speaking.” 

"Thou wast given to a man by a dead hand — ” 
another pause — "he married thee at the bidding of a 
woman — his foot is on thy heart — it is well, lo ! he is 
a man — and to be trusted.” He paused again and 


ANGEL 


236 

salaamed to the earth, a sign that he had concluded, 
and once more squatted upon his heels. 

“What? And is that all?” exclaimed Miss Cufife, 
indignantly. 

“I should think a little of that went a long way,” 
observed Alan Lindsay, “what more would you 
have? He is not an ordinary magic wallah I can 
see, who promises jewels and lovers. He takes him- 
self seriously.” 

The Fakir now beckoned solemnly to Mrs. Gor- 
don, who, with a half apologetic laugh, came for- 
ward. He looked her in the face with his burning 
eyes, and said in a harsh voice : 

“Where love should be — is emptiness. Where 
love should not be — lo ! there it is.” 

Angel glanced involuntarily at Mr. Lindsay; he 
had grown curiously white. 

“A shade cometh — I see no more.” And again he 
dismissed his victim with a profound salaam. 

“Dear me, what rubbish it all is,” protested Mrs. 
Gordon, as she took her seat with a somewhat 
heightened colour. 

“He is like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, who pro- 
phesied evil things ; see, he is beckoning Mr. Lind- 
say. I wonder what terrible message he will deliver 
to him?” 

“Lo, here are brains,” announcecd the seer in his 
sonorous Hindustani, — understood of all but the 
little spinster, “much riches. A heart — some talk — 
sore trouble. Wisdom and honour come when the 
head is white, and the heart is dead.” 

“Now for me,” cried Miss Cuffe, rubbing her 
hands gleefully, and ignorantly rushing on her fate. 


THE SOOTHSAYER 


237 

“I declare I am quite nervous. I cannot bear his 
eyes. Mr. Lindsay, do please stand close beside me 
and interpret.” Then she beamed coquettishly on 
the grim native, as if she would exhort good fortune 
by her smiles. 

He looked at her, with fierce contempt, and said, 
“Lo, Tis a weakling. Miss Sahib, thou art a fool ; the 
ring belongs to the tall sad girl, with the hungry 
heart, and the daring spirit. Such a ring will never 
be thine. I smell death.” 

“What does he say?” cried Miss Cuffe, as soon as 
she was dismissed. “Do tell me at once, Mr. Lind- 
say; I hope it was something good?” 

After an almost imperceptible pause, Mr. Lindsay 
replied, “He said the ring was not yours, it belonged 
to Mrs. Gascoigne. I think he was annoyed because 
you tried to get a rise out of him — he wouldn’t work 
properly. I shouldn’t wonder if he had cast the evil 
eye upon the whole lot of us.” 

“What a wretch !” she protested. “I am so sorry I 
asked you to send for him. I never dreamt that he 
would be a repulsive old skeleton dealing bad luck 
all round. It has not been such fun after all. Oh, 
here is Mr. Gordon! Oh, Mr. Gordon,” she cried, 
“do come and have your fortune told and her little 
hard eyes glittered. Miss Cuffe did not like the 
Commissioner, and saw no reason why he should be 
spared, when misfortune was being dealt out. 

“Give him ten rupees and he will make you a 
Viceroy,” suggested the opium wallah with a laugh. 
“Where is the fellow ? Has he gone ?” 

Yes, he was nowhere to be seen ; he had vanished 
mysteriously and without payment. By Mr. Gor- 


ANGEL 


238 

don’s orders, the Fakir was searched for, high and 
low ; he desired to question him respecting a certain 
peculiar murder case, but all search proved unavail- 
ing; the soothsayer had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 

This long, leisurely tour through the crops, the 
villages, the jungles, brought Angel into more in- 
timate touch with India than in all the previous 
years she had been in the country. Her knowledge 
of the language was an immense assistance to her; 
she had a keen enjoyment of the picturesque, a 
quick eye for character, and the rural life and scen- 
ery offered her a profoundly interesting study. 
Many an afternoon, accompanied by an escort of the 
camp dogs, including her own fox terriers, Sam and 
John, she took long walks or rides in its vicinity. 
These excursions afforded her far more pleasure 
than sitting under the tent flies, watching, with irre- 
pressible yawns the interminable chess tournament 
between Mrs. Gordon and the collector — chess being 
a form of amusement which was beyond her intel- 
lectual grasp — or listening to Mr. Lindsay as he 
read aloud, — and he read extremely well, — choice 
bits of Ruskin, Walter Pater, and Rossetti. 

But Angel required more variety — more actual 
life. She made her way into the huts of the peasant 
women, and talked to them eagerly, as they spun, or 
ground millet, or she joined the children among the 
crops, as they scared the flocks of monkeys and par- 
rots, and cut grass for the buffaloes. Some were old 
friends she had made two years previously, and one 
and all welcomed the fair lady, and confided to her 


ANGEL 


240 

their joys, their sorrows, and their schemes. How 
well she appeared to understand; she gave them 
small presents, of amazing magnificence in their 
eyes, and a sympathy that was still more surprising. 

How hard their lives were, she said tO' herself 
continually — lives of unceasing, monotonous toil, 
though they had not to bear the winter cold and 
privations of the English poor, but too often famine 
and pestilence stalked hand-in-hand through their 
land. And yet how cheerful they appeared, how they 
loved their plot of land, trusted their affairs to their 
family priest, their future to the village god, found 
their amusements in the veriest trifles, and were 
content with their fate. 

But the beautiful, fair English lady was not con- 
tent with her fate — oh, no; much less with that 
which her clear eyes discerned, the fate which was 
rapidly overtaking her best friend. 

The camp sometimes found itself in the vicinity 
of a large station, where it had its own quarters in 
the dignified seclusion of a mango tope, far aloof 
from bungalows, barracks, and bazaar. It came to 
pass that one morning Mr. Gordon’s tents were 
pitched under a grove, not far from Chitachar 
cantonment, an out-of-the-way place, with a small 
garrison, and a sociable community. The chief 
residents called on Mrs. Gordon, the party were 
made honorary members of mess and club, the ba- 
zaar master sent an oblation of flowers and fruit, 
and the nearest local Thalukdar galloped in with his 
ragged horsemen to pay his respects to the Commis- 
sioner. Chitachar had been a post of importance 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 241 

previous to the mutiny, much fighting had it wit- 
nessed; here and there a small walled-in space, re- 
sembling a garden, exhibited not merely shrubs and 
flowering trees, but tombstones. Desperate actions 
had been fought in unexpected localities, and even 
now it was whispered that the old commissariat 
stores, — formerly a fort, — were well supplied with 
water and ammunition, “in case anything should 
happen.” Surely nothing could ever disturb the 
calm of this peaceful spot, with its plains of green 
turf, the resort of cricketers and children, and its 
bungalows embowered in roses, its majestic trees 
and English-looking church ? 

Mr. Gordon liked Chitachar; it was his first sta- 
tion in India ; thirty years previously he had arrived 
here as a raw-boned Scotchman, dour, clever, and 
sternly determined to get on. Here, he had lived in 
one of the cheapest bungalows in the cheapest 
fashion; here he had learnt Hindustani, self-confi- 
dence, and self-control. Here, he had nearly been 
fool enough to marry the daughter of a railway con- 
tractor ; here, he returned a great man, travelling in 
semi-regal state, drawing a large income, the little 
king of the whole district. 

Mrs. Gordon, Mr. Lindsay, and Angel, availed 
themselves promptly of the use of the station club. 
It was a modest establishment in comparison to the 
one at Ramghur : merely a long, flat-roofed building 
opening on the road, and overlooking the green plain, 
surrounded with bungalows and gardens. Imme- 
diately in front were two tennis courts, and a raised 
structure resembling a band-stand, where people as- 
sembled to drink tea. In the interior were two large 


ANGEL 


242 

rooms, divided by a screen ; in one, stood a venerable 
billiard table, in the other, a round table covered 
with magazine and papers. The walls of both were 
lined with books, and at the back ran dressing- 
rooms, and a lair, where the club peon boiled hot 
water, and made out the accounts. The resources of 
the club were pathetically limited, nevertheless it 
was most popular; all the community assembled 
there every afternoon, and many people at home in 
Cheltenham, Bayswater, and elsewhere, still cherish 
kindly memories of the Chitachar club. 

3|e * * * * * 

When Mrs. Gordon and her small party entered 
this popular resort, it was empty ; the members were 
playing badminton or polo, or riding and driving in 
the neighbourhood (there was a choice of no less 
than four routes, including the cutcha road, and the 
old boat bridge). No one was to be found on the 
premises but a bearer, who was dressing the lamps, 
and a dog, who lay in the verandah catching flies. 

^‘What furniture I” said Angel, looking about her. 
“Did you ever see such a sofa, and such chairs — 
they must have come out of the ark.’’ 

“More likely they came out of some bungalow 
looted in the Mutiny forty years ago, and then sold 
back to ‘the sahibs,’ ” said Lindsay; “what tales they 
might tell !” 

“I am glad they are not gifted with speech,” said 
Angel, with a shudder. 

“And the funny old prints, and the funny rules,” 
said Mrs. Gordon, now criticising in her turn. “Any 
new books? No, as old as the hills,” taking up two 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 243 

or three, “and the magazines of last year. I wonder 
how it feels to live in such a sleepy hollow 

“Rather agreeable,” replied Lindsay. “I think I 
shall come here for the rest cure. I find they have 
the daily papers, including the Pi/* glancing at the 
Pioneer, “Mrs. Gascoigne, did you see that nice 
little part about your husband ? I meant to tell you 
yesterday.” 

“Where?” asked Angel eagerly, coming to the 
table as she spoke. 

He placed the paper before her, and indicated the 
place, as she sank into a chair. 

“Not much to do here?” he remarked, turning to 
the other lady, who was now rooting among the 
book shelves, and raised a flushed face and pair of 
dusty gloves. 

“What do you think?” she cried, “there is a first 
edition of ‘Adam Bede,’ one volume missing, and a 
battered copy of Dr. Syntax — a first edition of 
‘Vilette’ — what treasures !” 

“I should not be surprised if you unearthed one 
of the books of the Vedas in a place like this,” said 
Lindsay, contemptuously, “or the manuscript copy 
of ‘^sop’s Fables.’ ” 

“I don’t suppose the club has bought any new 
novels within the memory of living man,” said Mrs. 
Gordon. 

“Probably not,” said Lindsay. “I have no doubt 
that local topics and station gossip, amply supply the 
place of current fiction. There is nothing novel or 
interesting in the place. I am convinced that even 
the latest news is last year’s scandal.” 

“How you do despise this poor old place!” re- 


ANGEL 


244 

monstrated Mrs. Gordon. “I don’t believe they ever 
gossip here, except about cooks and the price of 
kerosene oil. It’s not at all a bad little club; it is 
quiet and unpretentious, and ” 

‘‘And dull,” supplemented Lindsay with energy. 
“Come, let us go for a walk outside, and take a turn 
round the polo ground. What do you say, Mrs. 
Gascoigne? Or are you too grand, in consequence 
of your husband’s achievements, to be seen with 
usr 

“Thank you, I think I’ll remain in this funny old 
club,” she replied, raising her head with a smile. “I 
want to look at the papers — perhaps I shall steal 
some of the books, and hear some of the gossip ? At 
any rate, I can find my way back alone.” 

As she spoke, she reached for a weekly illustrated, 
and the other two, with an unacknowledged sense of 
relief, walked forth side by side into the beautiful 
Eastern evening. 

Angel sat with her elbows planted on the table, 
absorbed in a story, till she was roused by footsteps 
and voices, the sound of ponies clattering up to the 
door, of men shouting for syces : people poured in, 
as it were, in a body. She felt a little shy, and hid 
herself as well as she could behind her paper. Those 
who noticed her casually, merely saw the top of a 
hat, and a white sleeve, and took for granted that she 
was one of the strangers from the camp. 

Billiard balls began to be knocked about, lamps 
were lit, several ladies came to the table, some took 
up papers, and all talked. 

“And so the Evanses have got their orders,” said 
a deep voice beside Angel, addressing her vis-a-vis, 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 245 

a handsome, rather haggard woman of thirty, 
dressed in a pretty pink cotton and a fashionable 
hat. 

“I’m very sorry,” she responded, “we shall miss 
them dreadfully — I’ve bespoke their cook.” 

“Well, he will console you — being the best in the 
station. I wanted him myself,” said Deep Voice; 
“now I must wait till you go.” 

“But I shall probably carry him off,” retorted the 
other lady with a laugh. “Anv news in the papers ?” 

“Not a word,” replied Deep Voice, “I read them 
all this morning,” pushing over the Pioneer. “There 
is something about a man I knew when I was a girl 
— a Colonel Gascoigne — he has got on wonderfully 
— he can’t be forty. We come from the same part of 
the world.” 

“Oh !” indifferently, reaching for the paper with a 
jingling of bangles, “was he, by any chance, the 
Gascoigne who broke his heart for Lola Walder- 
share ?” 

“Why,” ejaculated Deep Voice, leaning forward 
and speaking with unexpected animation, “of course 
he was — she was Lola Hargreaves then. We lived 
within a mile of one another — my father was the 
rector of Earlsmead. I remember as if it hap- 
pened last week, how excited we were when Philip 
and Lola were engaged ; she was only about sixteen 
— they had always been devoted to one another, and 
made such a pretty pair, as romantic-looking as Paul 
and Virginia — and as young;” she paused, slightly 
out of breath. 

“Do go on,” drawled Pink Gown, “I know Vir- 


246 ANGEL 

ginia — she was not drowned — and she did not 
marry Paul.” 

“No, though they were engaged for years. Mr. 
Hargreaves, her father, got into terrible difficulties, 
and Lola gave up Philip, and married an enor- 
mously rich old man — simply to save her family 
from ruin.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed the other lady — it was a most 
eloquent, incredulous monosyllable — “and, pray, 
what became of Paul ?” 

“He came tearing home from some place abroad, 
but it was all no good — it was a question of money 
and mortgages, and keeping the old place. He was 
frightfully cut up, for he was madly in love with 
Lola ; he went straight off to India, where, I believe, 
he has remained ever since.” 

All this time Angel was wedged in tightly be- 
tween the deep voice on one side, and a lady who was 
conscientiously doing the World acrostic on the 
other. Her parasol she had flung down on the 
middle of the table, where it was now half covered 
with papers; she, herself, was entirely concealed 
behind the weekly Puppet Show, though she could 
not see a picture, or read a line of print. Should she 
dash down her screen, snatch her parasol, and fly? 
While she was anxiously debating the question, 
Pink Dress said : 

“Mr. Waldershare is dead, and his widow is not 
wealthy; in fact, she is cut off with an annuity of 
four hundred pounds a year, so perhaps she will 
come out here and look for her old love.” 

“Too late,” announced Deep Voice, with tragic 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 247 

emphasis (she had the voice of a stage queen) ; ‘‘he 
is married — he married two years ago/' 

“Oh, really ; I did not know." 

“If you had been out here two years ago, you 
would have heard a good deal about it. He married 
his ward, a giddy child, who ran away to him from 
school. When she arrived, he was fearfully taken 
aback — and so was the station." 

“I suppose Mrs. Grundy kicked and screamed?" 

“Yes; she did not believe in a guardian of six- 
and-thirty and a ward of eighteen; so, although 
Major Gascoigne moved heaven and earth to get 
out of it, he was forced to marry the girl." 

There was a choking gasp beside Deep Voice, 
which she attributed to a dog under the table (for 
dogs and children were alike admitted into the 
Chitachar club). 

“And how does Paul hit it off with the child of 
impulse?" inquired Pink Dress. 

“Oh, pretty well — on the non-intervention sys- 
tem." 

“I see — gives her her head — and she turns the 
heads of the station subalterns ?" 

“I cannot say; I never heard anything about her, 
except that she is very pretty. Her grandmother 
is Lady Augusta Gascoigne." 

“You don’t say so ! Then Virginia the second is 
no ingenue,'' and Pink Gown nodded her hat till the 
feathers waved again. 

“Lola was lovely," continued her friend, with 
enthusiasm. “She was deeply attached to Philip, 
and she sacrificed her happiness for her family. Oh, 
it was wonderful." 


248 ANGEL 

“You mean that she was really in love with this 
young Gascoigne?’' 

“Oh, yes,” speaking with all her heart. 

“Then if she ever comes a'cross her first love — if 
they meet now she is free ” 

This aspiration was just beyond the limits of 
Angel’s fortitude; she put down her screen very 
quickly, and exhibited a ghastly face, as she bent 
over, murmured something to Mrs. Deep Voice, 
then rose to her feet, with a faint, “Will you 
kindly?” to her neighbours, as she extricated her 
chair ; but she carried her head with the pride of all 
the “De Roncevalles,” as she walked slowly out of 
the Chitachar club. Several men, who were smok- 
ing in the verandah, followed the girl’s graceful 
figure with approving eyes, as she stepped out into 
the cool starlight. 

“One of the ladies from the camp,” remarked 
one. “She is pretty enough if she did not look so 
confoundedly seedy.” 

There was a clear young moon, as well as the 
bright stars, to light Angel back to the tent. Every- 
one else had their chokedar in waiting, with his big 
stick and lantern, as the roads were frequented by 
Karites — (a deadly form of small snake resembling 
a bit of a broken branch on which the unwary may 
tread, and die within the hour). Karites had no 
respect whatever for the moon — she belonged to 
them — but they were afraid of big moons held close 
to them, accompanied by clumping sticks, and slid 
away nervously when they were approaching. 

Angel hurried homewards, totally ignorant of her 
danger, and as she rushed along, she noticed two 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 249 

figures, — at whom the young moon stared with mer- 
ciless severity. They were advancing very slowly — 
yes, halting occasionally to talk — ^but oh, she had no 
heart for other people’s troubles now. To think of 
Lola, whom she had detested, giving up Philip — the 
idea was almost too immense to grasp — and marry- 
ing an old man, in order to save her family. Oh, 
what self-sacrifice, what a common, selfish, every- 
day creature she was in comparison ! Such nobility 
was beyond her reach, and if Mr. Walder share had 
died a year sooner, if she had not rushed out so 
madly and hampered Philip with herself, he and 
Lola might have been happy after all. As she 
stumbled into her tent, and flung herself on her 
bed, she was once more the old emotional Angel, 
agonising with the misery of her aching heart. 
There were three people who were bound to be 
unhappy — two as long as she lived and stood 
between them, and she was the younger by many 
years. What a prospect! Angel was experiencing 
the hopeless agony of an exceptional soul; the clos- 
ing of adverse powers round a passionate strength, 
that would carve its way freely, and as she crushed 
her face into her pillow she moaned : 

“Oh, poor Philip — poor Lola — and poor me!” 

* * 

“What did she say to you?” asked Pink Gown 
eagerly, as soon as Angel had trailed away into 
the verandah. “I never saw such a pair of tragic 
blue eyes ; she was white to the very lips. Do you 
think she has been taken ill? You know that tope 
is notoriously feverish.” 

“You will never guess what she said,” stuttered 


ANGEL 


250 

the other lady, who was almost purple in the face, 
and whose expression and gaspings threatened apo- 
plexy. ‘‘She — she — said, ‘Excuse me — but I think 
I ought to tell you — that I am — Mrs. Gascoigne.’ ” 

Sensation. 

* 5|c 5fc :jc ^ ^ 

A sensation which circulated round the table, and 
thrilled the little circle; such a sensation had not 
been experienced since the hailstones in the thunder- 
storm had broken the skylight, and hopped about 
on the billiard-table. On the present occasion, the 
sensation was limited to the ladies, and a proud 
woman was she, who could rehearse effectively the 
little scene, as she sat at dinner, to the partner of 
her joys and jokes. In about twenty minutes’ time, 
when the ladies had somewhat recovered from the 
shock, and had done their best to recall and recapitu- 
late what had been said — and what had not been 
said — Mrs. Fitzjohn and Mrs. Danvers, the deep- 
voiced matron, resumed their conversation, the latter 
was really eager to talk of her old friend Lola. 

“Is it not strange that you and I should be discus- 
sing Lola Hargreaves, and that just here in this little 
out-of-the-way station, are two of her friends. The 
world is a small place. Have you seen her lately ?” 

“About a year ago ; but I only know her as Mrs. 
Waldershare, and I would not call myself — her 
friend ” 

“No?” sitting up rather aghast. “She used to be 
such a nice girl, and so pretty, and popular.” 

“Oh, she is very good-looking indeed, but I would 
scarcely label her as nice. She is a desperate gam- 
bler — that is no secret. Mr. Waldershare found her 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 251 

out, and had twice to pay enormous sums she lost at 
Monte Carlo.’’ 

“Dear me — it seems incredible.” 

“Yes, for she is so charming and seductive — she 
deceives casual acquaintances. All the world gaped 
when they read the epitome of Reuben Walder- 
share’s will, and that he left a million and a half, and 
to his wife nothing but a pittance and her personal 
belongings.” 

“Then — then ” stammered the parson’s 

daughter, “I’m afraid — she must have been fool- 
ish ?” 

“If you mean that she flirted — no, never, unless 
there was something to gain by it. But she is one of 
those what I call trampling women, who are deter- 
mined to get all the good out of life — no matter who 
suffers.” 

“My dear Mrs. Fitzjohn,” said Deep Voice, 
and in that voice there was a loud note of indig- 
nation, “Lola Hargreaves was never like this. She 
sacrificed herself entirely for her family, as I’ve told 
you. Mr. Waldershare helped her father, and saved 
him from disgrace — saved the estates, too. I was 
her bridesmaid,” speaking as if this alone were a 
certificate of virtue. “And I never saw anyone look 
so white in my life. Oh yes, she sacrificed herself 
— we all felt that.” 

“Sacrificed herself for — herself,” retorted Pink 
Gown, vindictively, “I’m afraid she must be greatly 
changed since you knew her.” 

“I do not see why she should.” 

“Her one passion is gambling.” 


252 ANGEL 

“Oh, well, of course it is in the family — her father 
ruined himself.” 

“I went home with her on board ship from 
Egypt ; she always made me think of Cleopatra, the 
serpent of the old Nile; she was so long and willowy, 
and seemed to twine and glide about, and to fas- 
cinate. She only exercised her fascinations on rich 
men, and that but seldom ; but if they went and sat 
by her deck-chair they were lost! Mr. Waldush 
would talk to them, and dazzle them, and then say : 
‘Shall we have a little game?’ She won large sums, 
and never showed the smallest excitement, and when 
she gathered up her winnings with her long white 
fingers, would say, in her sweetest manner, ‘Oh, you 
should have played this, or that, card.’ She is a 
marvellous player ; and has the brain of a mathema- 
tician, the men declared.” 

“I’m glad she has even that,” rejoined her brides- 
maid, with considerable heat. “I speak of Lola as 
I found her, and I stick to the fact that she gave up 
Gascoigne to save Earlsmead from going to the 
hammer, and to provide for her mother and 
brothers,” and there was more than a suspicion of 
sharpness in the key. 

“And I,” said Mrs. Fitzjohn, “stick to the fact 
that Earlsmead went to the hammer ; that the 
pecuniary help was comparatively insignificant. I 
speak with authority, as my sister is married to 
Edgar Hargreaves, Lola’s eldest brother. The place 
is gone from lim and his heirs for ever; they can 
just barely get along, and no more. Lola had no 
idea of marrying a sub. in the Sappers when she 
could marry a millionaire with forty thousand a 


THE CHITACHAR CLUB 253 

year — she said so; and I know that she gave old 
Mr. Waldershare any amount of encouragement; 
in fact, she threw herself at his feet.” Mrs. 
Danvers, of the Deep Voice, threw up her head 
indignantly, and glared at her opponent, but made 
no reply. “Lola Waldershare is one of those 
women who knows exactly what she wants — and 
gets it.” 

“She did not gain much by her marriage, at any 
rate,” argued her bridesmaid, with a sneer. 

“Only ten years’ enjoyment of every imaginable 
luxury,” retorted the other lady; “carriages, dia- 
monds, society, admiration, excitement, the spend- 
ing of immense sums of money — on herself ” 

Mrs. Danvers merely gave a dry, incredulous cough, 
and began to put on her gloves. “I fancy she is 
rather at a loose end now,” resumed Mrs. Har- 
greaves’s sister, speaking in a cool but acrimonious 
key ; “roaming about, most likely, seeking whom she 
may devour. If she ranges out here, she will prob- 
ably fasten on the Gascoignes; and I shall be sin- 
cerely sorry for that pretty, conscientious girl, who 
gave us all such a shock just now.” 

“If she ‘ranges out here,’ as you so elegantly 
express it, she will have no occasion to fasten on 
anyone,” rejoined Mrs. Danvers, with temper; “her 
home will be with me, her girl friend, her brides- 
maid. I shall ask her — indeed, I shall wire to her — 
at once.” 

“I doubt if she would find scope for her enchant- 
ments in Chitachar,” said Mrs. Fitzjohn; “there 
is not an open carriage, a roulette board, or a rich 
man, in the station. However, you may send off 


ANGEL 


254 

your telegram, and enjoy her society immediately,’’ 
and she pointed to a list of arrivals at Bombay. 

‘The sooner I see her, the better I shall be 
pleased,” said Mrs. Danvers, in a voice resembling 
the trumpeting of an elephant. I shall send a wire 
now. I can’t think how I overlooked the passenger 
lists. 

As she spoke she put down the paper, pushed 
back her chair, and left the table. 

At any rate, she had secured that consolation 
prize, “the last word.” And if Lola Waldershare did 
nothing else, if she never set foot in the station, at 
least she had been the means of occasioning a lasting 
antagonism between two of the very few ladies, in 
the Chitachar Club. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


IN ANGELAS TENT 

Several guests from the station were added to 
the camp dinner table, the Commissioner’s Khansa- 
mah contrived an impressive menUj and a dazzling 
display of plate and flowers. The wine was incom- 
parable — though the host greatly preferred Scotch 
whisky — and everything and everyone contributed 
to a pleasant evening, except Donald Gordon, who, 
as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs. Gas- 
coigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most start- 
lingly pale. In answer to enquiries, she pleaded a 
bad headache, and after the ladies had risen, de- 
parted to her tent. 

The camp moved on the following morning, and 
as Angel rode past the insignificant little club, she 
gazed at it with a curious expression on her face. To 
her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after 
all — truth was everything, she said to herself, — 
nothing else was of the same value, hopes and fears, 
rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust, in the presence 
of truth. 

Days went by, and Angel still remained silent, 
pale, and self-absorbed, her spirits occasionally 
rising to their normal height, then falling far below 
zero. One evening, as she was going to bed, and sat 
brushing her mane of hair with listless hand, the 
tent flap was abruptly raised, and Mrs. Gordon en- 
tered. 


ANGEL 


256 

'‘My dear child,” she said, 'Tm not going to 
stand this any longer. What is the matter? Even 
my husband has noticed you — it is something more 
than a common headache. Now, Angel, surely you 
will tell me ?” 

"Yes,” she answered with sudden passion, and 
she tossed her hair back, and looked fixedly at her 
visitor. "It is not a headache which hurts me — but 
a terrible heartache.” 

"What !” in a horrified voice. "Oh, no, Angel — 
no.” 

"Yes — sit down there on my bed, and I will tell 

you all about it — and then ” heaving a quick 

breath, "you will have to tell me — something.” 

Mrs. Gordon accepted the invitation in puzzled 
silence, and Angel pursued. 

"You remember the evening we were at Chitachar 
Club, rummaging among all the fusty old books, and 
how I stayed behind, and joked about listening to 
gossip — when you and Mr. Lindsay went out ?” 

Mrs. Gordon nodded, and coloured faintly. 

"I heard more gossip than I expected! After a 
time a crowd came in, and two ladies sat close beside 
me, so closely that I could hardly move my elbows. 
They began to discuss a certain Mrs. Waldershare, a 
widow” — here Angel stood erect in the middle of 
the tent, with a mantle of flowing fair hair over her 
white dressing-gown — "who jilted Philip years 
ago.” Mrs. Gordon sat erect and gave a little gasp. 
"He was always devoted to her, ever since they were 
playfellows, — now she is free — but he is married.” 

"Why, of course he is!” cried Mrs. Gordon, re- 
covering her wits, "what nonsense this is, Angel. 


IN ANGEL’S TENT 


257 

Why are you so tragic? you only want a dagger to 
be Lady Macbeth !” 

“Please let me go on — the lady said ‘Yes, he is 
married to a mere chit, a child, his ward, who ran 
away to him from school — he had to marry her, 
though he moved heaven and earth to get out of it/ 
Now” — and here Angel took a deep breath, and 
turned a pair of agonised eyes on her companion — 
“tell me — dear — good friend — is this the truth, that 
the station opinion was so strong, that Philip was — 
forced — to marry — me? Yes, yes, you have grown 
red — my God! — it is true.” And Angel threw her 
brush to the end of the tent, and suddenly sank on 
the ground, and buried her head in her hands. 

Mrs. Gordon instantly bent over, and put her 
arms tenderly round the girl, whose form now shook 
with hard, dry sobs. 

“And, oh ! I loved him so,” she moaned, “and he 
married me from pity — you remember what the for- 
tune-teller said — that a man had married me at the 
bidding of a woman — that woman was you — ” she 
cried suddenly, raising her head, and wrenching her- 
self free. “Oh, how could you degrade me like that ? 
How could you — be so wicked ?” 

“Now listen to me, Angel,” urged her friend 
soothingly. “Do hear what I have to say.” 

“No, no, no,” she sobbed, “you will try to excuse 
it — you will tell me lies.” 

“I will not, Angel — upon my honour.” 

Angel flung back her hair, and stood up ex- 
pectant, whilst Mrs. Gordon resumed her place on 
the camp cot. 

“When — when — ” she began, and her lips felt 


ANGEL 


258 

hard and dry, ‘‘you came out so suddenly, you were 
guilty of a most unpardonable act — it was very 
wrong/' 

“It was very wrong to vilify my mother," inter- 
rupted the girl passionately. 

“Perhaps so, but you know you undertook the 
trip, half as a joke, thanks to your giddy young 
friend ; you never realised the years that had drawn 
you and Philip closer together, that he was com- 
paratively young, and unmarried, that you were a 
grown-up woman. If you had — you would not have 
come — confess, that this fact struck you the instant 
you met him ? Come, now, Angel, be honest." 

“Yes, of course, I will be honest — you are right — 
it did, and I was simply horrified," admitted Angel 
gravely. “I had expected a man, a little stout, and 
bald, and grey — you see, I had no photograph to 
guide me, and six or seven years are ages at my time 
of life, more than twenty later on. The moment I 
saw Philip, I realised the awful mistake I had made, 
and felt almost inclined to turn and run away back 
into the wet jungle, but I pulled myself together, 
and did my best to carry it off with a high hand; 
there was nothing else to do." 

“I know that Mrs. Plant and her sister discovered 
you tete-a-tete — ^you, a young girl, and unchaper- 
oned. Then it seems that you attracted Miss Ball’s 
admirer, this was too much for her forbearance; to 
avenge herself she told a story to the station, she and 
Mrs. Plant whispered that they did not believe you 
were only just out — or as simple as you pretended. 
They said you had possibly — no, I won’t go on," as 
Angel’s face grew fixed and ghastly. “The talk had 


IN ANGEL’S TENT 


259 

become a clamour by the time Philip appeared ; per- 
haps you may understand the whisperings, the 
silences, and the curt refusals of our invitations, that 
puzzled us so much?” 

“I understand — all — now/' 

“Then of course Philip had to be told. At first he 
absolutely refused to believe his ears, but the lie had 
had a long start, and was strong and unflinching. 
He did not wish to marry you 

“So the other woman said.” 

“He thought you much too young; he declared 
you should see the world, and make your choice, 
and not be put off with a dull old bachelor. He was 
thinking of you, he was indeed, Angel,” trying to 
reach Angel’s hand, but she twisted it away, “he 
loves you very sincerely, and loyally in his own way. 
Has he not made you an admirable husband ? There 
is the answer to that silly woman’s chatter. Don’t 
you believe, my dear,” and she now took Angel’s 
hand firmly in hers, “that he loves you?” 

“Yes,” rudely snatching her fingers away, “pre- 
cisely as he did when I was a little girl at school, not 
with all his soul, and all his strength, as he loved 
Lola — not” — drawing a long breath, and transfixing 
her friend with her eyes — “as Alan Lindsay — loves 
you.” 

“Angel! What do you mean!” stammered the 
receiver of this rude shock, and the slumbering fire 
in her dark eyes kindled to a blaze. “How dare 
you ?” 

“Why should I not dare?” demanded the girl 
fiercely, “this is the place and time for plain speaking 
— lip to lip and eye to eye. Philip is straight, as they 


26 o 


ANGEL 


called him — he would never make love to a married 
woman — not even,” and she gave an odd laugh, “to 
his own wife. He is careful of my health, of the 
horses I ride, the people I know, he jumps up when I 
enter a room, he hurries to fetch me a wrap, but he 
never — never kisses my work, or my book, when I 
am not looking — nor waits patiently for hours to 
have a word with me — alone — as a man we know, 
waits for — you.” 

“Angel — Mrs. Gascoigne,” said her listener, who 
had suddenly assumed all the dignity of the wife of 
the Commissioner, “you have taken leave of your 
senses. You have had — a — a — sunstroke.” 

“No — no — I am quite sane, thank you,” she re- 
plied, “and perfectly cool-headed ; “you may remem- 
ber that as a child I was very sharp at seeing things 
that never occurred to other people. The faculty has 
not deserted me. I believe all women are possessed 
of an instinct, and recognise love when they see it. 
Dear Elinor, do forgive me,” she pleaded, and her 
voice broke, “because I love you, and I have so few 
to love. If I do not speak to you — who will dare? 
My sight is terribly keen — I cannot help it — I cannot 
help seeing that Philip does not love me — that Alan 
Lindsay does love you.” She paused for a moment, 
threw back her hair, and went on, standing directly 
before her companion, who sat on the side of the cot 
with a countenance as expressionless as a mask, 
“You are beautiful — you are sympathetic — you are 
good,” continued the girl in a clear ringing voice, 
“all the world knows you, as the admirable wife of 
— a block — of Aberdeen granite. Half the young 
men and the girls in the district have come under 


IN ANGEL’S TENT 


261 


your influence — which has always been noble and 
pure. It is as far-reaching and penetrating as the 
sun — it is your responsibility; and now love has 
come to claim you — and you are in danger, or why 
these long walks, and absorbing conversations, and 
early strolls to see the sun rise, and late strolls to 
see the moon rise? No one has recognised the dan- 
ger but we three — you and I and Mr. Lindsay. You 
must send him away — before it is too late.” 

With her white robe, flowing locks, and earnest 
and impassioned face, Angel might almost have 
stood for a picture of her namesake. 

“It is strange,” began her companion in a husky 
voice, “that you should be exhorting me — a woman 
who is fourteen years older than yourself — who re- 
members you a child.” 

“Yes, it is strange — it is, Fm afraid, unpardon- 
able. I expect you will send me back to Marwar to- 
morrow, and I am ready to go. I feel that I must 
speak, and risk your friendship — for your own 
sake;” then she added, “Oh, have I not said, and 
seen — what is true?” 

The immediate answer was long delayed, then 
suddenly Mrs. Gordon bent her head upon her 
hands, and burst into tears; at last she looked up 
with streaming eyes, and said : 

“Yes, your vision is clear; — I will not palter or 
fight off, or equivocate, — I do love Alan. Oh, what 
a relief it is to speak aloud, what I have scarcely 
dared to whisper to my own heart. Love has come 
to me at last; hitherto I have starved in the midst 
of plenty, now cruel fate has brought me a great 
gift — which I may not accept. I nursed Alan back 


262 


ANGEL 


to life — he had gone tO' the very edge of the grave, 
and he says my voice recalled him; that he loved 
me, only dawned upon me recently; he has never 
dared to tell me in so many words, but I know it, 
and the fact fills me with almost intolerable joy. My 
husband is cold and formal ; I was freezing into the 
same mould. Alan has melted my heart; I’ve 
warmed my hands before the fire of life ” 

‘‘Yes,” interrupted Angel, finishing the quotation, 
“but it does not sink — nor are you ready to depart 1 
Elinor, I beseech you, send Mr. Lindsay away. You 
are not as other women — ^you have a name and 
example to live up to; your influence has been like 
a star, which, if it falls, means black darkness to 
hundreds.” 

“You need not be afraid, Angel,” said Mrs. Gor- 
don with a sob; “I will never succumb — with God’s 
help — ^but you do not realise what it is, to starve and 
shiver for years, and then be offered your heart’s 
desire, only to refuse it ; a supreme influence seems 
to have taken possession of me, undefinable, and im- 
palpable, but real and actual, as light or the electric 
current. But I see that you despise me; in your 
eyes I have fallen from my high estate,” and she 
rose and threw her arms tightly round Angel. “Yes, 
I despise myself.” 

“Promise me that you will send him away,” whis- 
pered Angel. 

“Yes, yes — that I promise. When we return to 
Marwar, he goes to England, and we shall never — 
never — meet again. Oh — never.” 

“Goes to England?” repeated Angel, incredu- 
lously. 


IN ANGEL’S TENT 


263 

‘‘He succeeded to his property some time ago, but 
has kept the matter quiet, and remains out in India 
for ” 

“For your sake,’’ interrupted Angel; “I under- 
stand. Well, I hope he will go soon.” 

Mrs. Gordon shivered involuntarily. 

“It is strange — or is it not strange — that your 
husband has never noticed how friendly Mr. Lind- 
say is — with you?” 

“No, no; he attributes it all entirely to himself. 
It would be impossible for him to realise that I 
could attract anyone in that way.” 

“And he is an old mole, grubbing away at the 
story of the love of Shireen and Ferhad, and never 
sees the real story which is enacted before his eyes.” 

“Oh, Angel, don’t say such things, my dear — they 
hurt — they hurt.” 

“Yes, the truth is painful,” acknowledged Angel. 
“I am brutal to you — because it hurts me. It is 
the truth that my husband’s heart belongs to an- 
other woman. I cannot blame him; once and for 
ever, it is as it should be — and she is so beautiful, not 
only her face, but her character is lovely and noble. 
It is all a little hard on me, yet truth forces me to 
confess that there is no one to reproach but myself. 
Oh, what ease and comfort it would give me if I 
could blame some one. I threw myself upon Philip 
without thought or reflection, and I have cast myself 
between him and the woman he loves, and is now 
free to marry him — only for me — only for me — they 
would both be happy. I learnt all this at the little 
Chitachar Club. Listeners certainly hear bad news 
of themselves.” 


ANGEL 


264 

“My dear Angel, you are much too sensitive — 
you are morbid,” interrupted her friend; “but you 
know the saying. 


‘Le temps passe, 

L’eau coule, 

Le coeur oublie/ 

Philip has forgotten his first love years ago.” 

“No, no; Philip never forgets anything, and I 
should never have heard about Lola, only in the 
way I did. They loved each other as children. 
They love one another still. As I lie there on this 
little bed, do you know that I sometimes pray to 
die — a quiet, easy death — to sleep, and never wake. 
It would mean so much happiness to others — and 
— here she choked down a sob — “I don’t think any- 
one would be very sorry, or miss me much — except 
the dogs, and you.” 

“Oh, Angel!” exclaimed her companion, “my 
dear child, you must not talk like this. I cannot 
imagine where you get hold of such extraordinarily 
wild ideas. If anything happened to you — it would 
break Philip’s heart; he 

“He,” interrupted his wife, “would marry Lola 
within six months — or less. I hope so — tell him.” 

“Elinor,” growled a voice, outside the flap of the 
tent, “what the devil do you mean by having lights 
burning at this hour and talking and disturbing 
people, and keeping Mrs. Gascoigne out of her bed ? 
Go back to your own tent at once — come, don’t daw- 
dle,” and Elinor, having embraced her guest, swiftly 
obeyed her lord and master. 

It was noticed that the delightful cold weather 


IN ANGEL’S TENT 265 

camp, usually so bracing and health-giving, had 
evidently been of no benefit to the two friends. 
When they returned to the station, people declared 
that they had never seen Mrs. Gordon look so fagged 
— no, not in the cholera year even, when she had 
nearly worked herself to death; and pretty Mrs. 
Gascoigne had not only lost her colour, but her 
spirits. 

What had they been doing to themselves, or one 
another? Was it possible that they had quarrelled? 


CHAPTER XXVII 


'"the sin"^ 

Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne sat in their cool 
matted verandah drinking early morning tea, and 
watching the makes splashing water over the plants 
from their primitive earthern chatties, and the syce 
cutting luscious green lucerne for the expectant 
horses. Their only companions were the fox-ter- 
riers, Sam and John, and any description of the Gas- 
coigne menage which omitted these gentlemen would 
be inadequate and incomplete. They were twins, 
and as unlike in appearance and disposition as it 
was possible to be. Sam was a remarkably hand- 
some dog, exhibiting all the best points of his race. 
He had a black face, bright tan eyebrows, and silky 
white ears; his disposition was sporting, affection- 
ate, easy-going, and game, but his intellect was not 
brilliant. On the other hand, his brother was en- 
dowed with the master mind; he planned, and Sam 
carried out. It was John’s great brain that found 
means to extricate them when they got into nasty 
scrapes connected with breakages, pet rabbit-killing, 
and egg scandals. In the clever discovery of other 
dogs’ bone stores in ferreting out useful short cuts 
and rare sport, John was prominently to the front. 
Sam was a determined hatter — and, alas, “catter” — 
of unwearying energy and speed, but not insensible 
to luxury, caresses, and praise. He liked to lie on a 
lady’s lap — although he weighed twenty-one solid 
pounds of bone and muscle. He liked to be petted, 


-THE SIN’^ 


267 

and to have his throat scratched, and to repose in 
the middle of a soft down quilt (he being muddy or 
otherwise) ; but he was so handsome, and so insin- 
uating, that his wishes were generally gratified. 

Sam was a nice, simple, unaffected dog, and a gen- 
eral favourite. John was stout, well set on his legs, 
with no approach to style or pedigree ; his head was 
too round, his nose too short — foolish people declared 
he had ‘‘a pretty face,” and judges admitted that his 
cat-like paws were models. He abhorred all en- 
dearments and liberties — though to gain certain ends 
he could beg and give the paw. He was fond of 
music, and came and sat under the piano when Angel 
played, occasionally accompanying her in soft, me- 
lodious howls. He also sang — to the mandoline. 
He was a very duck in the water, which his brother 
loathed. He was shamelessly greedy, and Sam was 
an ascetic. John was immensely clever, and Sam 
was a fool. John was self-centred, impulsive, and 
irritable. Occasionally he and his twin fought for 
no apparent reason, almost to the death, and were 
only separated by being vigorously pumped on, or 
torn, as it were, asunder. They were always badly 
mauled and covered with blood ; Sam was invariably 
the victor, and immediately set himself to lick his 
brother’s wounds, who received this Samaritan-like 
attention with sullen toleration. On the sole occa- 
sion when John was the best dog he bore himself 
most unchivalrously, lorded it over his vanquished 
foe for twenty- four hours, and would not suffer him 
to come into the presence of their joint mistress, or 
to approach within six yards of his fat, vain-glorious 
self. 


268 


ANGEL 


But John had delivered his brother from the dis- 
agreeable consequences of murder and theft, secured 
him excellent sport, and on one occasion saved his 
life, returning home in the middle of the night, rous- 
ing the household by his terrific howls, and leading 
forth a rescue party to where Sam — ever the most 
enterprising — was smothering in a snake hole. The 
couple thoroughly appreciated camp life, and, no 
doubt, bragged prodigiously of their feats and esca- 
pades to other less lucky dogs whom they met at the 
band-stand or in the club compound. At the present 
moment they were shivering to be taken out. John 
sat on his hind legs, his gaze pathetically fixed on 
Gascoigne’s last piece of toast, for his greed and pre- 
sumption were unique. Sam divided his attention 
between driving sparrows out of the verandah — 
those vulgar street boys of the world — and keeping 
a sharp eye on his master’s movements. 

'T say,” said Gascoigne, ‘‘these fellows have done 
themselves well in camp! John is actually bloated; 
he has the figure of an alderman.” Angel laughed. 
“But I can’t say as much for you,” and he looked 
at her steadily. 

He was thinking how soon India robs a girl of 
her good looks. Angel was white, her cheeks were 
hollow, her features had sharpened. 

“I should hope not,” she retorted; “surely you 
don’t want me to have the figure of an alderman?” 

“I should like to see a little flesh on your bones,” 
and he reached over and took up her limp hand and 
wrist. “What have you been doing to yourself, 
Angel?” 

“Nothing.” 


“THE SIN” 269 

‘^And no one has done anything to you? What 
is it? You seem rather down on your luck/’ 

“Then appearances are deceitful,” she answered, 
dragging away her hand. “I — I” — Angel was un- 
accustomed to telling broad, flat-footed lies — at last 
she brought out — “enjoyed myself enormously” 

“Though there were only the three of you! 
Donald Gordon is an able man, but a murderous bore 
— the compressed essence of a dozen wet blankets. 
A little of his society goes far. Oh, but I forgot — 
you had that fellow Lindsay. How did you like 
him?” 

Angel coloured faintly ; there was a moment’s per- 
ceptible hesitation before she said : 

“I don’t dislike him.” 

“Come! this is enthusiastic praise! and yet he is 
quite a ladies’ man ; far more at home reading poetry 
than pig-sticking; in fact, he rides so badly that it 
makes me positively uncomfortable to see him. He 
is an humbling spectacle on a horse.” 

“Um — yes ; but I don’t think clever people gener- 
ally ride well — as a rule,” said Angel. 

“Then there must be a crowd of clever people in 
Marwar ! By the way. I’m told that Lindsay came 
into his property about three or four months ago — 
why on earth does he not clear out? A man with 
six thousand a year is out of focus in India. What 
is his anchor out here, I wonder ? A woman ?” 

Angel blushed furiously — guiltily. Gascoigne 
looked at her in mild surprise. 

“How should I know ?” she answered impatiently. 

“He likes his work, just as you do yourself — he 
worked very hard indeed.” 


ANGEL 


270 

“And when he had a little breathing time — how 
did he employ himself?” 

“He played chess, and went for long walks and 
he read aloud — Rossetti and Browning.” 

“Just what I would expect.” 

“You need not scoff; you read to us yourself — 
once upon a time.” 

“True, oh, Angel ; but then — I was in love.” 

''Were you?” 

“Certainly I was. Shall I read to you now?” 
picking up the local paper. “We are a little late this 
morning; my horse had to be shod.” 

“Yes, do read,” assented his wife; “but there is 
never anything in the paper now, but the plague — 
and the rupee.” 

“I say, listen to this,” he exclaimed, beginning to 
read. “ ‘Sad Accident at Suchapore.^ Why, you 
must have met her.” 

“I don’t in the least know what you mean, and 
I hope I do not.” 

“It’s a Miss Cuffe. ‘We regret to record a fatal 
carriage accident at Suchapore, which resulted in 
the death of Miss Mabel Cuffe, recently arrived 
from England. She and a friend were driving in a 
dogcart, when the horse took fright at an elephant, 
bolted, and upset the cart. The unfortunate girl was 
thrown out, and killed on the spot. This painful 
incident has thrown a gloom over the entire sta- 
tion.’ ” 

“I should think so,” exclaimed Angel. “How 
dreadful — and how soon.” 

“Dreadful — certainly,” agreed Philip, looking at 
her interrogatively; “but why soon?” 


“THE SIN” 


271 

‘‘It is such a short time since I saw her; it seems 
only the other day we all had our fortunes told by a 
Fakir, and he said, when he looked at Miss Cuffe's 
hand, ‘I see death/ Of course she did not under- 
stand — and she was not told — and it was only a 
fortnight ago.” 

“A mere coincidence,” said Gascoigne; “I don't 
believe in these predictions. Did you have your 
fortune told too ?” 

“Oh, yes, we all had, including Mrs. Gordon.” 

“And what did he tell you ?” 

Angel looked at him meditatively; she seemed 
to be making up her mind. At last she said : 

“He told me that I was married.” 

“That was nothing new or strange.” 

“No; but that my husband had married me at the 
bidding of — another woman.” 

“That, at least, has the merit of novelty.” 

“And — truth?” she added quickly. 

“Now, is it likely? I would be far more inclined 
to marry because a woman told me not to marry 
you. But I did not want any telling, did I, Angela 
miaf” and he bent over and brushed her cheek with 
his glove, and John instantly sat up, believing that 
it was something to eat. “You must cheer up, and 
come for a good gallop. Remember there is a big 
dinner at the Residency this evening.” 

“Do you think that a lively prospect ?” 

“No ; I dread big dinners of thirty.” 

Here Gascoigne signed to the syces to bring up 
the horses, swung his wife into her saddle, and in 
another moment they were crossing the parade 


272 ANGEL 

ground at a sharp canter, followed by Sam and 
John ventre a terre, 

^ if. ^ 

A big official dinner in India is a solemnity, not 
a festivity ; people are invited, and accept as a matter 
of duty. They do not anticipate enjoyment; but the 
women look forward with keen expectation to 
receiving their rightful precedence, and to exhibit- 
ing their newest gowns. Angel, though but twenty- 
three, was a lady who sat among the chief guests, 
thanks to her husband’s position. As these were 
many years her senior, she was generally most des- 
perately bored. On the present occasion, she con- 
templated the prospect with an involuntary sigh, as 
she swept down the steps in a graceful white gown, 
and got into the brougham, followed by Gascoigne, 
in all the usual evening war paint of a Colonel of the 
Royal Engineers. 

‘‘What a dull evening we shall have !” she 
exclaimed, as she held out her glove to be buttoned. 
“All oldish official people that we have met a hun- 
dred times. We do take our pleasures sadly.” 

“Yes, if you call this function a pleasure,” said 
her husband, as he neatly completed his task. “I’ve 
a heap of work at home I ought to get through, in- 
stead of eating for two mortal hours, and listening 
to Lady Nobb — she is generally my fate. Her idea 
of conversation is a monologue on missionaries.” 

“Well, at least, it saves you exerting yourself. 
Oh dear,” and Angel yawned, “if we could only have 
games or charades — or even blindman’s-buff.” 

“What a profane suggestion,” ejaculated her hus- 
band. 


‘‘THE SIN^’ 


273 

“Yes, or see a few new faces; and here we are — 
and there is Lady Nobb getting out of her carriage. 
Oh, Philip, she has on such a smart pink silk petti- 
coat — quite a wicked petticoat !” 

“Then I shall certainly make it the basis of our 
conversation,” said Gascoigne, as he opened the 
door and jumped out. 

In a few minutes “Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne” 
had been received by the aide-de-camp, and ushered 
into the great durbar room — a lofty, pillared apart- 
ment, with palms, rare Persian carpets, rose-shaded 
lamps, soft inviting lounges, beautiful curios, and 
many large photographs scattered here and there 
(the signed gift of passing guests in return for vari- 
ous favours received). In spite of AngeFs melan- 
choly forecast it presented a brilliant scene, with 
brave men in uniform, and beautiful women in their 
best array. 

The new arrivals were formally presented to their 
Excellencies, with whom they were on a most 
friendly everyday footing, and then drifted away 
into the crowd. 

“Quite a collection of strangers,” said Alan Lind- 
say, as he attached himself pointedly to Angel. “I 
must say I think it’s hard lines on the Lieutenant- 
Governor and Lady Eustace to have to invite every 
Tom, Dick, and Harry who write their names in 
the book. I suppose you have seen Mrs. Gordon 
to-day ?” he added in a cautious undertone. 

“No,” very sharply. 

“That is unusual, is it not?” he pursued; “she is 
not well — she was ‘Darwaza Bund’ when I called. 
I’m off in ten days’ time, I — think.” 


ANGEL 


274 

“Oh, are you?’’ said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a more 
cordial tone. “How glad you must be!” 

“I’m not glad, you know I’m not, and why,” he 
said, fixing her with his keen eyes ; ‘'you know all 
about it.” He made a quick, eager gesture and sat 
down on the sofa ; then he bent his head towards her 
and murmured, “Why — pretend?” 

Colonel Gascoigne, who was engaged in discuss- 
ing hydrostatics and flying levels with a brother sap- 
per, noticed this little scene, — Lindsay’s assured atti- 
tude, his confidential pose. He stared for a second 
as if struck by some new idea, but at that instant his 
attention was required elsewhere. 

“Hullo !” exclaimed his companion, “I thought we 
were going to stay all night, and I’ve seen the L. G. 
look twice at his watch. Here come the Blaines, and 
a friend. By Jove, she was worth waiting for.” 

Philip turned and glanced casually toward sthe 
entrance, and saw Sir Evans Blaine, K.C.B., and 
Lady Blaine, charged with apologies, and in the act 
of presenting their friend, “Mrs. Waldershare.” 

Lola! Yes, Lola herself, looking brilliantly lovely, 
a very queen of society. She wore a long trailing 
black gown, which followed her in sinuous lines 
along the soft white carpet, and shimmered as she 
moved, like the scales of a fish. Her arms were cov- 
ered with tightly-fitting sleeves, her neck was very 
bare, according to the prevailing mode; the black jet 
set off her white skin to great advantage. A slender 
chain of diamonds encircled her throat and fell below 
her waist, and a diamond comb or crown shone amid 
her piled-up dark hair. In one hand she held a tiny 


“THE SIN” 275 

painted fan, and she carried herself like a sovereign 
prepared to receive the homage of her subjects. 

Lola made a beautiful picture, as she stood talking 
■with animation to the Lieutenant-Governor and be- 
came the immediate cynosure of every eye. To Lola, 
these were the moments that made life worth living. 

Angel, who had been on the point of speaking 
sharply to Lindsay, held her breath as this vision 
swam into her view. Horror, surprise, admiration, 
chased one another through her brain. Her face 
looked white and wan, all her girlish beauty seemed 
to shrivel up and fade, as she realised that she and 
her rival were now within the lists. 

Mr. Lindsay caught a glimpse of her expression, 
and exclaimed : “Oh the bewitching widow ! San- 
dys of my service came out with her on board 
ship; she’s just arrived from home. Isn’t she a 
wonderful creation — and quite lovely.” 

“Not very young,” remarked a lady who sat near, 
“but well versed in the arts of fascination. I would 
give a good deal to know the name of her dress- 
maker! — what a wonderful gown.” 

“Yes,” agreed Lindsay, “dramatic and realistic — 
it’s not a gown — but a personality.” 

“Do you know what she reminds me of,” contin- 
ued the lady eagerly — a clever worn-looking woman, 
in a frumpish but expensive garment, a woman whose 
children and whose heart were in England — “it 
is a picture in a gallery in Munich. I stood before 
it for twenty minutes, and I went back to look at it 
twice; it is of a beautiful woman, a dark woman, 
with a face like hers — she is dressed entirely in a 
serpent, a great dark blue serpent, wound round her 


ANGEL 


276 

body, whose head rests confidentially over her shoul- 
der. They are both beautiful, both similar, both 
wickedly fascinating — and the name of the picture 
is The Sin.’ ” 

“My dear Mrs. Frobisher,” cried Lindsay, with 
affected horror, “how shocking — surely sin and this 
enchanting stranger have not even a bowing ac- 
quaintance.” 

“Possibly not,” she answered dryly, “but she and 
The Sin’ are identical in appearance.” 

“And now we are on the move,” said Lindsay. “I 
am so fortunate as to have the honour of taking you 
in to dinner, Mrs. Gascoigne.” 

Angel rose, and accepted the proffered arm in a 
sort of trance. Had Lola and Philip met? Would 
they sit near each other? Her eyes roved round 
anxiously, as she moved to her place at that exquis- 
itely decorated table, covered with lovely La France 
roses, shining silver, and delicate ferns. 

No, but it was almost worse, she said to herself 
with an inward groan ; they were seated exactly op- 
posite to one another; and Lola had such eloquent 
eyes! 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


MAKING FRIENDS 

During that long official feast, Angehs thoughts 
were distracted and confused. They were engrossed 
by a couple lower down the table — of these she could 
only catch occasional glimpses — conveying a fleet- 
ing vision of a handsome dark profile and gold 
shoulder cords, and a lovely white throat, a dazzling 
chain, a dazzling face : besides all the heart-sickness 
occasioned by this picture she had on her left hand 
Alan Lindsay, sternly determined to endow her with 
his confidence — she fiercely resolved not to receive 
it. What a situation for one helpless young woman ! 
No wonder that her appetite was miserable, her 
remarks vague and erratic, her face white, and her 
expression fixed — Mrs. Crabbe, who sat opposite, 
was delighted to hear her partner declare that he had 
“never seen any one go off so soon as Mrs. Gas- 
coigne.’’ — To know that her husband and his beauti- 
ful first love were dining vis-a-vis, drinking to one 
another with their eyes — no — no — Philip was not 
like that ! To know, that beside her sat the avowed 
lover of her dearest friend, who was only awaiting 
an opportunity to pour his cause into her ear, was 
almost too much for the endurance of any girl of 
two-and-twenty. And Angel’s right-hand neigh- 
bour afforded her no support ; he was as useless as a 
stuffed figure, being both deaf and shy. However, 


ANGEL 


278 

she summoned her courage, girded herself for the 
fray, and rose to the occasion. Even as a child she 
had a wonderful spirit. Time after time she turned 
the conversation when it approached her friend. 

“How heartless you are!” exclaimed Lindsay, 
when they had arrived at the first entree. ‘T declare, 
you have no humanity, no sympathy — you are a 
stone.” 

“Very well — I am,” she answered doggedly, “and 
I have no sympathy to spare for you.” 

“Pray, why not? I’ve always thought you so 
broad, and so bright, almost like an American girl. 
Certainly the American climate is favourable to 
intellectual vivacity.” 

“Intellect has nothing to do with the present case,” 
said Angel sharply, “and no American girl would 
support your views.” 

“I’m not so sure of that, Mrs. Gascoigne. It is 
easy to get a divorce in the States — they are sensible 
people; why should a man and woman who are 
totally discordant be compelled to live together in 
misery all their lives? It’s worse than penal servi- 
tude — what is there to bind them ?” 

“Their vows,” she answered gravely. 

Lindsay shrugged his shoulders, and gave a queer 
little laugh. 

“I am so glad you are going away,” said Angel, 
with undeniable rudeness. 

“Yes, and so am I,” he answered imperturbably, 
“if I do not go alone.” 

“0/ course, you will go alone.” 

“Why of course? Why should not Elinor ac- 
company me?” he asked, dropping his voice. 


MAKING FRIENDS 


279 

Mrs. Gascoigne became suddenly very red; her 
hand shook a little. 

‘‘He will set us free — we will marry in six months, 
and begin a new existence. What a maddening 
thing life is — a mass of mistakes. One’s hands are 
tied, and fate comes and mocks at us — but I intend 
to cut the cords. Here is Elinor’s life wasted with 
a boor, who values her less than a quire of foolscap, 
whilst I would lay down my life for her.” In the 
midst of this heroic speech potatoes were offered 
and declined. 

“Listen,” he continued eagerly, “my plan is 
this ” 

“Hush,” said Angel, “not so loud. Mrs. Crabbe 
opposite is exhibiting the liveliest interest in your 
conversation, — and I don’t want to hear any more.” 

“You must hear,” he said inflexibly. 

“Well, if I must, I suppose I must. I cannot 
escape from the table — I won’t agree with one 
word you say — so you are warned.” 

“I want Elinor to come to England with me. I 
am now a wealthy man; after six months she will 
become my wife, and we shall be unutterably happy.” 

“For a year — perhaps, and then you will both 
begin to realise your mistake; you will regret your 
career, and she will be grieving for her downfall. 
You will be each other’s punishment; Elinor will 
feel intense remorse, knowing what her evil example 
means to so many, and that her life’s work is de- 
stroyed. She will become old, worn, and unsatisfied, 
and you will be disillusioned.” 

“You talk like a seer, Mrs. Gascoigne,” he sneered. 

“I am far-sighted,” she admitted quietly. 


28 o 


ANGEL 


“Don’t you know — do you not see that it would 
be for Elinor’s happiness to cast off this hideous life 
of pretence, and become my second self, my wife, 
the mistress of my dear old home?” 

“She would be mad to listen to you,” said Angel 
fiercely; “she will suffer, when you leave; she will 
mourn as for a death — oh, it will be a hard trial, but 
it is better to suffer and be strong now, and get it 
over, than to endure agonies of shame later on, and 
always. She will never listen to your plan. If she 
did, I would hold her back by main force; if she 
went she would have to drag me along with her. I 
will never let her go.” 

“I always thought you were her friend, and 
wished for her happiness.” 

“I am her friend — and I do not wish for her dis- 
grace.” 

“Why are you so narrow-minded? Many di- 
vorces are in society ; and Elinor is so sweet and so 
good — her influence will always be felt wherever she 
goes.” 

“No, not when it is known that she has left her 
husband — with you. You must practise before you 
preach; and if I have read Mr. Gordon’s character 
correctly, he will never divorce his wife.” 

“So,” after a long pause Lindsay said, “you are 
not on my side?” 

“No, nor ever will be — and what a discussion for 
a dinner-party !” 

“It was my only opportunity. I asked Du Visne 
— he’s a pal of mine — to send us in together if 
possible.” 

“If he had known your object, he would have 


MAKING FRIENDS 


281 


turned you out; now let us talk of anything — or 
nothing else. Ah! I see people putting on their 
gloves ; thank goodness, we are going at last.” 

^ * 5 |« ♦ 

As Angel sat in the drawing-room, mechanically 
turning over a book of photographs, too unnerved to 
mix with other women and talk gossip or chiffons, 
she suddenly looked up and found Lady Eustace 
beside her, who said : 

‘'Mrs. Gascoigne, here is a lady who is most 
anxious to make your acquaintance. Let me intro- 
duce Mrs. Waldershare, a very old friend of your 
husband’s.” 

Angel rose, and held out her hand in silence. 

Was this the pretty girl that they said Philip had 
married? mentally asked Lola, as with one compre- 
hensive glance she criticised her substitute. Why, 
her complexion was like a sheet of white paper, and 
her collar-bones stood out in pitiful prominence ; but 
she had wonderful eyes, and her figure was graceful, 
her dress elegant. 

“I felt that you and I ought to know one another 
as soon as possible,” said Lola in her drawling voice; 
“you know Philip and I are such old, old friends ; we 
were girl and boy together, and I should so much 
like to be friends with his wife.” 

“Thank you,” said Angel, faintly. What a nam- 
by-pamby creature! thought her listener — aloud, 
“Do let us go over and take possession of that most 
delicious-looking sofa and have a good, comfortable 
talk — before the men come,” and she led the way 
with admirable grace. “I think,” she continued, 
settling herself with a cushion at her back, “these 


282 


ANGEL 


little after-dinner chats are such opportunities for 
seeing something of other women,” and she nodded 
over at Angel with a delightful expression of good 
fellowship ; she was considerably startled by the ex- 
pression in the girl’s eyes. What did they say ? 

They conveyed a grave, almost awed admiration ; 
now Lola loved admiration, and accepted it greedily 
from any source, from a crossing-sweeper upwards. 
That Philip’s wife should admire her with those 
great tragic blue eyes was funny. She always had 
an idea that Philip’s wife would not care for her. 
This simple chit would care for her, and be exceed- 
ingly useful. She meant to place herself under the 
dear child’s nice white wing — yes, and her name was 
Angel. 

“Have you any children ?” she asked softly. 

Angel blushed to the roots of her hair, and shook 
her head. 

“But dozens of dogs, I am sure! Philip was 
always crazy about dogs and horses, yes, and all 
sorts of horrid things, toads and tortoises and tad- 
poles. You are quite young,” she resumed; “oh, 
how I wish I were your age !” 

“I should not mind exchanging,” said Angel, with 
a faint smile. 

“I only wish we could,” rejoined Lola with em- 
phasis ; “oh, you can’t think how bitterly I cried the 
day I was thirty I” 

“Really? Why should you mind, and you look 
so young.” And then with an effort she asked, “Are 
you staying in Marwar, or just passing through?” 

“Oh, I am staying with the Blaines for a day or 
two, then going up country to my brother Edgar. 


MAKING FRIENDS 283 

Fve come out to spend a year in India. I think I 
shall like it immensely, and I hope it will like me. 
The country is so bright and sunny, and everyone so 
cheery and so hospitable. I’ve met several people 
that I came out with on board ship, and we feel quite 
like old friends. There’s Captain Hailes of the 
Muleteers, and the little Tudor boy. Sir Capel 
Tudor; we called him Cupid. He is ridiculously de- 
voted to me. By the way,” she went on in another 
key, ‘T suppose you have heard that Philip and I 
were engaged once,” and she looked at her with a 
half-bantering expression. 

“Yes, I know,” responded the other gravely. 

“For quite a long time — nearly four years. You 
won’t,” and she raised herself about half-an-inch and 
lightly touched Angel’s hand, which hung limply 
over the back of the sofa, “you won’t like me any the 
less — for being fond of him — will you, dear ?” 

“No, certainly not,” with an eloquent gesture. 

“In fact, it constitutes a bond between us — and 
you won’t care for him any less,” and she looked up 
into Angel’s serious eyes, “because he used to like 
—me?” 

“No,” and then ensued a long pause. 

“It was a funny marriage, was it not?” she re- 
sumed suddenly. 

“What — whose?” asked her bewildered listener. 

“Why, yours, dear. He was a hardened bachelor, 
and you were such a child. But it has turned out 
very well,” another pause, “hasn’t it, dear?” 

“Oh, yes,” blushing, and feeling curiously em- 
barrassed. 

“What a dear you are ! I’m going to be so fond of 


284 ANGEL 

you ; I know at once, when I like people or not. And 
you 

‘‘No, Tm not like that — it is too soon.” 

“Never too soon to begin a liking, dear.” 

“But I admire you more than anyone IVe ever 
seen,” said Angel impulsively. 

“Come, that's a good start,” patting her arm with 
a touch of patronage. By-and-by, I believe, when 
you know me — you will pity me.” 

“Pity you?'' gazing at this lovely, languorous 
creature, with her shining gown, her shining jewels, 
her shining eyes. 

“Ah ! you are too young to know the tragedy of 
giving up, of annihilating self; of being misrep- 
resented, slandered, and beggared. Well, I will tell 
you all about it some day. I’m coming to see you 
to-morrow. I am told newcomers call first. And 
here are the men. Do look at my little travelling 
friend. Sir Cupid. Ah, there is Phil,” and she beck- 
oned him with her fan. “Dear old Phil, how good 
it is to see you — how you bring back old times. 
Your wife and I have been making such friends, and 
having a long chat. Now,” as he looked interroga- 
tively from one to the other, “I’m going to have a 
good long talk with youf' As Lola spoke, she rose 
and laid a small hand upon his sleeve, and with a 
little gay nod to Angel, glided away with Philip into 
the great verandah. 

Angel sat up and gazed after the couple — Philip 
slight, erect, and soldierly, his head a little bent, his 
hands behind his back. No, he had not offered I.ola 
his arm. 


MAKING FRIENDS 285 

And Lola moving beside him with her graceful, 
undulating walk, looking up, and talking quickly all 
the time. She felt, as she watched them slowly dis- 
appear into the sitting-out verandah, as if the sun 
had been extinguished by a huge black cloud. 

Lola was an enchantress. She herself had felt her 
influence, and was powerless. As she sat in a sort 
of dream, she heard a man’s voice say, “Is she not 
ripping? Old Graydon lost his heart to her coming 
out.” 

“Yes,” said another, “and young Tudor lost two 
hundred pounds to her, which is ten times worse.” 
But, of course, they were not alluding to anyone she 
knew. 

The tete-a-tete in the verandah lasted till carriages 
began to come rumbling under the big porch, and 
when Philip and Lola reappeared, she looked con- 
spicuously radiant. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


LAST YEARNS NEST 

Residency parties invariably broke up in good 
time, and it was not more than half-past ten when 
Colonel Gascoigne handed his wife into her 
brougham, and set off, according to his custom, to 
walk home. To-night he had unusual food for 
thought, as he proceeded at a leisurely pace, smoking 
a most excellent Residency cheroot. So Lola had 
risen on the. horizon in the character of a fascinating 
widow, with all the liberty, prestige, and self-posses- 
sion usual to her class. How wonderful her eyes 
were! He came to a momentary standstill as he 
recalled them, and how her voice trembled as she 
talked of “long ago,'’ and separation, and the cruelty 
of circumstance, and misapprenhension. She revived 
a phase of his existence that he had almost forgot- 
ten ; it was a little difficult to realise that he had been 
madly in love with her once. That was nearly fifteen 
years ago — how time flew — in the good old days 
when she could play cricket and rounders, and did 
not know how to use her eyes. These reflections 
were abruptly brought to a conclusion by the ap- 
pearance of a bare-headed lady in silvery opera 
cloak, who was evidently awaiting him under an 
acacia tree by the edge of the maidan. 

It was Angel, who, acting on a sudden impulse, 
had stopped the brougham and descended, and sent 
it home empty. She felt that she must escape from 


LAST YEAR’S NEST 287 

her own company, her own terrible thoughts. She 
must talk to Philip about Lola without delay. No, 
she could not wait, even half-an-hour, for she was 
mentally staggering under the impact of a new sen- 
sation — the name of the sensation was jealousy. 
Her very soul was in a fever. Naturally highly- 
strung, fervent, and impetuous, Angel’s whole being 
was centred in the longing to know what her hus- 
band thought of Lola — what of her — which of them 
did he love? 

And as she stood by the roadside awaiting his 
coming, her heart seemed to beat, ‘‘Lola, Lola, 
Lola,” and the distant frogs chorussed “Lola, Lola, 
Lola.” 

They were holding a reception in a neighbouring 
tank, safe from the barbarous paddy bird, and the 
ruthless crane. 

J|C >le Jle * 5|« * 

“Oh, here you are at last!” said Angel; “it is such 
an exquisite night, I thought I would walk home,” 
adding apologetically, as she held up her dainty 
shoe, “the road is as dry as a floor ; let us go across 
the parade-ground.” 

“All right,” he assented; “it is too early for 
snakes. How hot it was in that drawing-room, with 
those big lamps.” 

“It was,” assented his wife, “but you must have 
found it cooler — in the verandah.” 

There was a significant pause, and then Colonel 
Gascoigne boldly broke the ice at the thickest part. 

“There is nothing so certain as the unexpected,” 
he said; “who would have thought of seeing Lola 
out here ?” 


288 


ANGEL 


“Who, indeed?’’ echoed Angel coolly; “and we 
were wishing so much for a new face, though her 
face is not new to you. Everyone comes to India 
nowadays. It would never surprise me if grand- 
mamma appeared. There she goes.” 

“What! your grandmother?” 

“No, Mrs. Waldershare.” 

As she spoke a large open carriage bowled along 
the hard white road. It contained the Blaines and 
their guest, who waved her fan to the pair, with a 
gesture signifying approval and velediction. 

“What do you think of her?” asked Philip, 
abruptly, as the horses’ hoofs died away in a distant 
clip-clop. 

“I think she is beautiful,” answered Angel, in a 
voice that carried sincerity in its expression ; “there 
can be but one opinion about that.” 

“I shouldn’t have thought she was your style.” 

“Oh, yes, I admire dark people.” 

“Thank you, Angel ; that is one to me. But you 
did not approve of her as a child.” 

“No, I was prejudiced, and, of course, I was no 

judge; but now that — that ” she hesitated. She 

was going to add, “that I know her story ” 

“That you have arrived at years of discretion or 
indiscretion,” he supplemented. 

“Yes, now that I have arrived at years of 
experience, I do not wonder that you adored her.” 

Philip did not remark the little falter in her voice. 

“How do you know that I adored her?” 

“Did you not?” was her quick counter question. 

“Well, then — yes.” 


LAST YEAR’S NEST 289 

“And were distracted with misery when she mar- 
ried Mr. Waldershare?” 

So they said/’ and as he spoke he knocked the 
ash off his cheroot with elaborate care. 

“You have forgiven her” — and Angel caught her 
breath ; “you forgave her to-night ?” 

“I forgave her ten years ago; but, my dear child, 
do not let us rake up the ashes of an old love affair 
that has been extinct for ages. I am quite prepared 
to be civil to Lola, as an old playfellow and friend, 
that’s all. You will have to call on her, and ask her 
to dinner, and all that sort of thing.” 

Angel came to a sudden dead stop, and stood very 
straight in her long silvery cloak ; her face was white 
as she gazed at her husband in the moonlight, with 
her extraordinarily piercing blue eyes. 

“Playfellow — friend,” she repeated, “do you be- 
lieve that she will ever forget, or allow you to forget, 
that you were her old lover, her first love — she 
won't” she added with sudden passion. “She re- 
minded me of it to-night, and declared that it was a 
bond between us.” 

“Then, my dear Angel, I leave her entirely in your 
hands,” rejoined Philip, with a smile. He had a rare 
but beautiful smile, inherited from his mother. “She 
is an odd creature ; she has an embarrassing way of 
speaking her thoughts aloud. She thought that, and 
unawares it escaped her lips. Lola is not young, she 
has plenty of sense, she knows that fifteen years roll 
between the — the old days — and these, and that,” 
now laying his hand impressively upon Angel’s arm, 
“there are no birds — in last year’s nest.” 

“But ” she began excitedly. 


ANGEL 


290 

“But/’ he echoed, turning his head sharply, “here 
comes young Hailes, running after us. He little 
dreams that you and I are discussing abstract senti- 
ment at eleven o’clock at night, in the middle of the 
parade-ground.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Gascoigne,” gasped Captain Hailes, 
breathlessly, “I believe this is yours — you dropped 
it on the road — ^just now.” 

“Yes, and how very kind of you to take so much 
trouble — it really was not worth it,” said Angel, who 
inwardly wished both glove and finder a thousand 
miles away. She was anxious to pursue the subject 
of Lola, her opportunities for a tete-a-tete with 
Philip were so rare ; and this odious but well-mean- 
ing Captain Hailes accompanied them all the way 
to their own gate. 


CHAPTER XXX 


A WHITED SEPULCHRE 

BeEore continuing this history, it is necessary to 
say a few words respecting Lola Waldershare. As 
Lola Hargreaves, ever lovely, seductive, and smil- 
ing, by strangers and mere acquaintances, she was 
looked upon as one of the most bewitching girls in 
the county. Her beauty, youthful graces, and 
charm, threw a dazzling glamour over her person- 
ality that her immediate surroundings were not 
blinded to her faults; her brothers recognised her 
selfishness; her mother was aware that her heart 
was hard as a nether millstone. Those who had 
little dealings with Miss Hargreaves learnt that she 
was not particularly truthful or scrupulous. The 
increasing straithess of the family fortunes, the 
struggle to make a brave display abroad, the shifts, 
shabbiness, and pinching, at home, the manoeuvres 
to evade creditors, and keep up appearances, had left 
their mark on Lola. Poverty was hideous ; humilia- 
tion was unendurable; and Lola was resolved to be 
rich. A short season in London had shown her the 
value of her beauty ; her face was, and should be, her 
fortune; and long before Philip Gascoigne had any 
idea of his fate, he had been mentally discarded by 
his -fiancee. Letters are deceptive, it is so much 
easier to deceive by pen and ink than by word 
of mouth. What Mrs. Danvers had declared was 
perfectly true; Lola had sacrificed herself — for her- 
self. In marrying Reuben Waldershare she attained 


ANGEL 


292 

her wishes — though she would have been glad to 
eliminate two well-grown step-stons — and Mr. 
Waldershare, for his part, was well satisfied with 
his bargain. Unfortunately, in an evil moment he 
took his beautiful young wife to Monte Carlo, and 
there the Hargreaves’ demon, the gambling demon, 
awoke, and seized upon her. The taint was in her 
blood ; Lola was her father’s own daughter. At first 
she was contented to win small sums at roulette, 
which she gleefully invested in hats and lace and 
trifling ornaments. After a week, as the poison 
began to work, she increased her stakes, and talked 
fluently of “douzaines” and “transversals” and 
“runs.” She relinquished expeditions to Nice, or 
into Italy. She grudged every hour spent elsewhere 
than at the rooms. She had her own lucky table, 
her lucky charm, and, above all, her system. Like 
most beginners, she won largely, and Reuben Wald- 
ershare, who was obtrusively proud of his clever, 
elegantly dressed, smart wife, liked to see people 
crane over in order to watch her pretty eager face, 
as she sat with rolls of gold rouleaux before her, 
her pencil busy, her eyes ablaze. 

Little did he know that he had fired a mine the day 
he placed three hundred pounds to his wife’s account 
at the Credit Lyonnaise, and told her half in joke, 
that was “a little sum to play with.” 

Mrs. Waldershare now played incessantly — and 
played high. 

“I like to put a 'mile’ note on one number,” she 
declared with a gay laugh ; “I agree with an old man 
who sat next me, 'Ca vous donne des emotions.’ ” 

Mrs. Waldershare returned each winter to the 


A WHITED SEPULCHRE 293 

Riviera as punctually as a swallow, ostensibly in 
search of health, but in reality to gamble continu- 
ously, extravagantly, and recklessly. She lost enor- 
mous sums; her husband’s pride now changed to 
alarm. The husband of the lovely Mrs. Walder- 
share, who was winning to the envy and admiration 
of her neighbours, was a different being to the man 
who had to disburse staggering sums almost daily. 
Lola promised to give up gambling, and never to 
touch a card or back a number. Her promises were 
invariably broken — nothing would or could keep her 
away from the scene of her gains and losses. She 
owed huge bills in London and Paris; the money 
to pay these she had flung into the great gulf — she, 
whose luck was astonishing, was now secretly sell- 
ing her jewels — and wearing paste. Mrs. Walder- 
share was again at Monte Carlo the year her husband 
died ; her fascinations were irresistible. A beautiful 
woman, thirty years his junior, sweet, seductive, 
persuasive, her stolid elderly partner could not with- 
stand her. He was suddenly called away to Paris, 
on urgent business, leaving Lola and her maid and 
many acquaintances at the Hotel de Paris, but before 
he departed he extracted a solemn promise from his 
wife that during his absence she would not enter the 
rooms, and this promise she vowed to keep. The 
first day she went over to Nice, the second day was 
wet, and seemingly endless, the third day something 
drew her into the Casino in spite of herself. The 
talk of her friends, of runs of colour, of great 
‘‘coups,” was too much for her miserable little will ; 
something, she afterwards declared, dragged her 
forcibly into the Salle de Jeux. She went with a 


ANGEL 


294 

party, merely in order to look on, but in twenty 
minutes’ time, she was seated at the “trente et quar- 
ante” with a card a pin, and a pile of gold in front 
of her. She won — she won again the following day, 
and then she lost — lost — lost all the money — lost 
her self-control — lost her head. She borrowed until 
she could borrow no longer; in the frenzy of gam- 
bling, she drew a cheque for a thousand pounds and 
signed it “Reuben Waldershare.” All moral sense 
expired, as she blotted the clever imitation of her 
husband’s signature. This money followed her 
other losses in one short day, and then Lola was in- 
deed desperate. She went at sundown and walked 
round Monaco, and gazed thoughtfully over the wall 
at a spot which other despairing eyes have measured, 
where there is a sheer precipice, lapped by the blue- 
green Mediterranean. 

No, no — looking down always made her sick and 
giddy, she could not do it. Life was sweet. Reuben 
would certainly forgive her — after all, what was his, 
was hers. 

When Mrs. Waldershare returned to the hotel, 
she found a telegram awaiting her; it announced 
that her husband was ill with a sharp attack of gout. 
She was requested to leave for Paris at once, and 
accompany him home. After a few days, during 
which time Lola made herself indispensable to 
•the invalid, hourly hoping to seize a favourable 
moment, and make her little confession; unfortu- 
nately the cheque presented itself too promptly, 
and Reuben Waldershare, to whom such an act as 
forgery appeared as great a crime as murder, was 
deaf to all excuses and appeals. He raged with the 


A WHITED SEPULCHRE 295 

deadly slow anger of a phlegmatic nature; in this 
condition, he added a codicil to his will, and having 
done so, died rather suddenly of gout in the stomach. 
And now, Lola found herself a widow, with a small 
jointure and immense debts. She endeavoured to 
patch up the wreck of her affairs, she tried to beguile 
creditors, propitiate people she had snubbed, to make 
friends with her cast-off relations, but she was alike 
in the black books of her acquaintances and her 
tradespeople. She therefore resolved to shift her 
sky, and come out to India, ostensibly to visit her 
dearest brother Edgar (who had no desire for her 
company), and to see something of the East. She 
brought with her a maid, a quantity of smart gowns, 
a large stock of courage and enterprise, and a very 
small amount of ready money. 

In short, she had come out to seek her fortune, 
precisely like the young adventurer one reads of in 
books of fairy and other tales. Marwar was a capital 
centre, she had gathered this information en route; 
Indian people were approachable, hospitable, and not 
too inquisitive; appearances go far, when one sails 
away from a — reputation. 

Then by a wonderful stroke of luck she encoun- 
tered Philip Gascoigne ; as good-looking as ever ; no 
longer the impetuous boy, the impassioned subaltern, 
but a cool, self-reliant, distinguished Philip, with a 
fine position, a heavy purse, and a dear, simple, ap- 
preciative wife. They would be extremely useful, 
introduce her to the best society, save her expense, 
and officiate as her sponsors. 

These were a few of Mrs. Waldershare’s reflec- 
tions, as she drove into the Gascoignes’ compound 
the afternoon succeeding the dinner-party. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


FISHING FOR AN INVITATION 

Mrs. Waldershare presented a most charming 
picture, as she rustled into Mrs. Gascoigne’s great 
drawing-room, with her exquisitely gloved hands 
eagerly extended. Her entree was accompanied by 
the rustling of silk, a faint jingling of beads, and 
atmosphere of heliotrope. She wore an elaborate 
white dress, a black plumed hat, both unmistakably 
French and expensive. 

“Oh, I am so ashamed!” she exclaimed; “I had 
to pay one or two other calls, and like a greedy child 
with sweets, I kept the best for the last. I had not 
the faintest idea it was so late.” 

“Better late than never,” said her hostess, politely, 
and the gong at that moment sounded for tiffin. 

“You will stay, won’t you?” she urged, little 
knowing that her visitor had carefully timed her 
arrival in order to be sure of catching Philip at 
home; “I’ll send away the gharry.” 

“Oh, thank you, I must confess it is a great temp- 
tation; but do you think the Blaines will mind?” 
and she looked at her hostess appealingly. 

“I can write a line if you like. Philip,” turning 
about as her husband entered, “here is Mrs. Walder- 
share — she will stay to lunch.” 

Lola gave her former lover her hand, and a long, 
expressing glance; then as Angel hurried out, she 
said : “What a charming home you have, Philip.” 


FISHING FOR AN INVITATION 297 

“I am glad you like it,” he said cheerfully. 

^‘How funny to think of this being your house, 
Philip, and of you being married and happy.” She 
gazed up at him with soft interrogation as she spoke, 
then dropped her voice and said, “And I am solitary 
and homeless and poor — all my life, Fve stood aside 
for others and — given up.” One of Lola’s chief ac- 
complishments was to tell the most dramatic and 
delightful lies. 

“I can’t say that you answer your own descrip- 
tion,” replied Gascoigne, ignoring her touching in- 
sinuations. “I never saw anyone that looked more 
fit.” 

“Ah, appearances are deceitful,” rejoined the lady 
with a sigh ; “but how well you are looking — so little 
changed,” another wistful glance. 

“Won’t you come into tiffin,” said Angel, appear- 
ing suddenly. “I have sent off a note to Mrs. 
Blaine,” and she led the way into the dining-room. 

“What a delightful bungalow this is,” remarked 
Lola, after she had helped herself carefully to may- 
onnaise; “so much larger than the Blaines’. Quite 
double the size.” 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” assented Angel, carelessly. 

“They have only one spare room. Of course they 
are not old friends, only board ship acquaintances, 
and it was so good of them to put me up; but I’ve 
got to turn out.” 

“You are going on to Edgar?” said her host. 

“Oh, no, such a bore. The Edgars are moving, 
and won’t be settled for a whole month. She is 
marching with the regiment to Seetapore, so I am 
going to take my chance in the Imperial Hotel here.” 


ANGEL 


298 

And Lola looked down, and sighed profoundly. 

“Will it be very bad, do you think?” she asked, 
suddenly raising her eyes to Angel. 

“Fm sure I cannot say; Fve never stayed in a 
hotel in India, but a great many globe-trotters put 
up there in the cold weather.” 

Philip gazed at his wife. Was she unable to 
recognise a broad hint, or was she intentionally and 
exceptionally dense? 

“By the way,” continued Angel, “have you not a 
friend at Chitachar? I heard a lady mention that 
she had been your bridesmaid.” 

“Oh, yes, my dear, pray don’t speak of her — such 
a dull creature, with a voice like a fog-horn. Philip, 
you remember Lucy Worsley at the Parsonage?” 

“Oh, yes, of course I do. She was a good sort, 
and had a first-rate Airedale terrier.” 

“She was densely stupid, and always had chil- 
blains, even in summer. She is out here now, and 
telegraphed me to go and stay with her” — Mrs. 
Waldershare had made full inquiries respecting 
Chitachar; — “but I really cannot move again so 
soon.” 

“What brought you out to India? What put it 
into your head to come East ?” 

“The instinct of exploration, I think; and I 
wanted so much to see dear old Edgar again, and” 
— with a crooked smile — “you. As one grows 
older, especially when one has no home or ties, one 
gets restless, and hankers for the friends of one’s 
childhood — don’t you think so, Mrs. Gascoigne?” 

“No, I can’t say that I ever hankered after the 
friends of my childhood, except one,” she replied; 


FISHING FOR AN INVITATION 299 

“I have four half-brothers, whom I never wish to 
see again.” 

Lola opened her eyes, until they looked a size 
larger, and gazed at Angel in astonishment, and 
then broke into a laugh. 

“I suppose you had a different experience to mine 
— we had a very good time, had we not, Philip?” 
she appealed to him in her sweet, persuasive voice. 

‘‘Yes, we made things fairly lively for ourselves 
and others.” 

“It’s one thing that cannot be taken from us — our 
memories. Do you remember the day the piebald 
pony ran away with us, and jumped the gate?” 

“That is hardly a happy memory.” 

“No ; but the picnics to Tancliffe Abbey, our cook- 
ing and dressing up — our — oh” — with a quick little 
gesture of abandonment — “our everything.” 

Gascoigne laughed. “We were awfully keen on 
half-raw potatoes, the cinders of birds, and corking 
our faces on the smallest provocation. How one’s 
tastes change !” 

“Aunt General Gascoigne, and dear Aunt Ven — 
how lovely she was,” continued the guest. Philip 
shrank like a sensitive plant; he did not wish her 
to speak of his mother. Lola, with her quick per- 
ception, was instantly aware of this, and added in 
almost the next breath, “And do you remember the 
nest in the Clock Tower, that I dared you to get?” 

Philip rose and said, “I am afraid I must remem- 
ber events of to-day, and ask you to excuse me — I 
have to see the General before three. Angel and you 
can have a talk, and she will drive you home after 
tea.” 


ANGEL 


300 

“Oh, I cannot stay to-day, Tve heaps to do,” pro- 
tested Lola piteously; “but I’ll just smoke a cigar- 
ette with Mrs. Gascoigne — no, I really must call her 
Angel — I daresay she smokes?” 

“I did,” acknowledged Angel, “ but I’ve given it 
up.” 

“Why?” 

Angel made no reply beyond a laugh; she had 
given it up to please Philip. At last she said, “Well, 
I suppose we outgrow our habits.” 

“Do we? I never outgrow mine, and smoking 
gives us all the pleasures of hope and of memory. 
Let us sit in two corners of this sofa and talk ; I do 
want to know you.” 

“It is very kind of you to say so,” responded 
Angel quietly. Lola gave a long comprehensive 
glance round the luxurious room, and blew a cloud 
of smoke through her nostrils. 

“You must be very well off,” she remarked sud- 
denly. 

“We are,” admitted her companion; “an old 
friend of Philip’s mother, a lover, I believe, died a 
year ago, and left him three thousand a year.” 

“Nonsense,” sitting erect; “fancy remaining in 
this country.” 

“Philip likes it — his heart is in his work. He 
would hate to retire, and just live in London clubs 
and in a house in Mayfair.” 

“What do you know of Mayfair?” 

“Not much, but I lived there once.” A pause, and 
then Angel suddenly said, “Please tell me about 
Philip’s mother.” 

“Oh, Aunt Ven, as we called her. She was beau- 


FISHING FOR AN INVITATION 301 

tiful ; such a lovely face, a little sad — a good woman. 
It was said that in her first season, she took London 
by storm, also her second, and at the height of her 
glory she dropped out of the firmament; and was 
seen no more.” 

“Was there not a reason?” 

“None, beyond a mere surmise; people hinted at 
a love affair — and a mischief-maker. Ten years 
after she reappeared as Mrs. Gascoigne — married 
someone who did not expect a whole heart-devour- 
ing passion. Her son,” again that crooked smile, 
“you see has done the same.” 

“You mean in marrying me,” said Angel quickly. 

Lola pulled herself together. Had that glass of 
Burgundy gone to her head? She must be more 
wary. This kind of talk was so full of pitfalls. 

“Of course,” she replied, taking Angel’s hand in 
hers, “you make him far happier than I could have 
done, and you are just the right age — the early 
twenties.” 

“But you look in the twenties yourself. How do 
you manage it ?” 

“Oh, I try to get the very most out of life, by 
keeping in touch with what is pleasing. I never 
see or hear anything disagreeable — be gay, and you 
remain young.” And Lola released her companion’s 
fingers with a squeeze. 

“But if you feel things terribly, and are sorry for 
people, and animals, and misery?” 

“Oh, that is fatal, it means bad nights, and wrin- 
kles, and horrors ; I cannot afford to be emotional, I 
am a poor solitary woman. If you read sad books, 
and sing sad songs, and mix with sad people, you 


302 ANGEL 

become sad yourself. Do you know that you look 
rather sad — it was the first thing that struck me 
when I saw you.’^ 

“Oh, but I’m not,” rejoined Angel, and the colour 
rose to her face; “I’m really supposed to be rather 
frivolous and 

“And here is my gharry coming back,” inter- 
rupted the visitor, “and, alas! I must go. I’ll see 
you at the theatre this evening, won’t I ? And you 
are going to see a great deal of me, dear. I hope 
you won’t mind.” As she spoke, Mrs. Waldershare 
embraced the astonished Angel with much empress- 
ment, went gracefully down the steps, ascended into 
her hired conveyance, and was presently rattled 
away. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


BY PROXY 

In a surprisingly short time, Mrs. Waldershare 
had become one of the most interesting personalities 
in Marwar. Her beauty, her toilettes, her seductive 
manners, her air of being accustomed to the best the 
world could offer, went far to promote her success. 
She was accepted at her own valuation, and inci- 
dentally as a very old friend of the Gascoignes, and 
was invited, feted, admired, and imitated. The 
lady’s victoria was surrounded at the band, or polo ; 
men schemed and struggled for the honour of escort- 
ing her. She had graciously accommodated herself 
to the deficiencies of the Imperial Hotel, and estab- 
lished terms of intimacy with an exploring widow, 
with whom she chummed, and gave charming little 
teas, tiffins, and suppers. Mrs. Waldershare was 
extremely exclusive, and desired it to be understood 
that she only wished to know “the nicest people.” 
As she was a regular attendant at church, and her 
air and deportment were unexceptional, “the nicest 
people” were delightful to cultivate her acquaint- 
ance. 

It is needless to mention that they knew nothing 
of the little games of cards, which constituted such 
an attractive item at Mrs. Waldershare’s evening 
reunions, nor dreamt that it was close on sunrise 
when they broke up, and that one or two of her 
guests returned to their quarters with lighter 


ANGEL 


304 

pockets, and heavier hearts. There was never 
a whisper of these gatherings in society, only in the 
bazaar, where all is known, and where the fair 
widow was branded with a name that we will not 
set down here. Captain Hailes and Sir Capel Tudor 
were daily visitors at the Imperial Hotel ; the 
former, on the strength of a distant cousinship, the 
latter simply because he had enjoyed the honour of 
being Mrs. Waldershare’s fellow-passenger. He 
was a cheery, boyish little fellow of two-and-twenty, 
keenly anxious to see, and do everything. He and 
a friend had come out to India with the intention 
of indulging their mutual taste for sport and moun- 
taineering, but Cupid had cast off his companion at 
Bombay, to follow the path of his enchantress. 

In spite of his uproarious spirits, his round, boy- 
ish face, and curly locks. Sir Capel Tudor could be 
as doggedly obstinate as any commissariat mule ; he 
was rich, he was his own master, and after a some- 
what stormy scene at their hotel, the two comrades 
had parted, Sir Capel to come up country in order 
to visit Agra and Delhi and other historical places, 
and Mr. Hardy to coast down to Travancore, men- 
tally cursing one particular young fool — and all 
widows. 

* * 5|« 5}C Hi * * 

Of course Mrs. Waldershare saw a good deal of 
the Gascoignes; she dined with them, drove with 
Mrs. Gascoigne, who admired her still — admired 
her graceful, gliding gait, her wonderful eyes, her 
wonderful gowns, her wonderful and irresistible 
ways. 

Angel was always severely truthful to herself, and 


BY PROXY 


305 

she drew painful comparisons between Lola’s 
beauty, her fresh, English complexion (oh, most in- 
nocent Angel, it was pain), her attractive manners, 
and her own white face, her dull wit, her inability to 
shine, or even to attempt to shine, when Lola was 
present; and what a fund of friends, experiences, 
and memories she and Philip had in common, events 
that had happened when she was in her ayah’s arms 
— yes, and before she was born. 

In this period, naturally the happiest of Philip’s 
life, she had no share; and as the pair talked, drawn 
on from subject to subject, undoubtedly they 
sometimes forgot the third person, who sat half 
buried in sofa cushions, aloof and silent, telling her- 
self that she, not Lola, was the outsider. She alone 
stood between Philip and this beautiful woman, with 
whom he had so much in common — youth, dead and 
living friends, memories, and first love. Angel had 
the power of keeping her feelings to herself, but she 
could not keep her misery entirely out of her face. 
Philip’s anxious inquiries invariably met with a civil 
rebuff. 

“You are as grave as a little old owl,” he said one 
day. “I wish I knew what is the matter.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Is there such a thing as nothing?” 

“Don’t ask absurd questions; I suppose I may 
look pale if I please.” 

“But I don’t please.” 

Angel quickly turned the conversation by a ques- 
tion : 

“Do you know that Mrs. Gordon is really ill?” 


2o6 angel 

“No; but I have not seen her about for ages — 
fever ?’' 

“Yes; malarial fever. I believe she caught it in 
the district. Fm going over to visit her now.” 

“All right; Fll call for you on my way from the 
club.” 

“Oh, do go for a ride, and take Sam and John.” 

“Fll see them further ! Sam has killed two of the 
young pigeons, and three of the Houdan chickens — 
quite a bag!” 

“Yes; I shut him up in a godown for punish- 
ment.” 

“Much he cared.” 

“John cared. He sat outside and howled for an 
hour, and what do you think he did ?” 

“Something with respect to refreshments.” 

“Yes. He brought a bone and pushed it under 
the door.” 

“Fll bet it was well picked. Now, I am off. Let 
me know if I can do anything for Mrs. Gordon. 
You might take her over those new books and pic- 
ture-papers — and give her my love.” 

“What will Mr. Gordon say?” and Angel gave 
a rather hysterical laugh. 

“Why should he say anything? He knows very 
well that we all love her.” 

Mrs. Gordon had been keeping her room for some 
time, and received no one but Mrs. Gascoigne. She 
looked miserably ill, but refused to stay in bed ; and 
as her husband did not believe in making a fuss 
over women, or in encouraging them to remain on 
the sick list and upset the house, the invalid was left 
a good deal alone. 


BY PROXY 


307 

Angel found her in her own special sanctum, 
wearing a soft silk tea-gown, and an expression of 
utter weariness and lassitude. 

“Yes,’’ she replied, in answer to her friend’s ex- 
clamation, “I am indeed a wretched-looking speci- 
men. I’ve had this fever before, and I know how it 
takes it out of me — between the fever in my blood, 
and the fever in my mind, I am almost extinct. 
See,” and she held up an envelope, “he will keep on 
writing to me, although I never answer his letters. 
I think it is so cruel of him : and he comes here every 
day. His steamer leaves Bombay on Saturday, but 
he swears he will not leave India till he sees me 
again.” 

“Yes?” 

“He will never see me again. No more than if I 
had died — I am dead, my heart is dead.” 

“Oh, Elinor, don’t say that. You love me a little, 
and so many, many people love you.” 

“If they knew what you and I know, do you think 
they would love me?” 

“Yes, and more than ever.” 

“But do you realise that I ache — yes, that is the 
word — to see Alan, to hear his voice, to look at him 
even once more — before he goes away,” and her 
voice shook, “for ever? Do you know that I have 
written to him — oh, so many letters — mad, wild 
wicked letters, and destroyed them. I believe there 
is another spirit in my body, not the old restrained 
conscientious Elinor, but a mad, crazy spirit, who 
prates of love and the world well lost. Oh, my dear, 
you see in me a very sick woman mentally and phys- 
ically — you are my doctor.” 


ANGEL 


308 

‘‘What can I do for you?’’ and Angel laid her 
cool hand on her companion’s burning head. “Tell 
me. I will do anything to help you.” 

“You can meet Alan — take him my good-bye 
to-morrow. Tell him he must leave on Saturday. 
People are all wondering why he stays on ? and are 
looking about for the inducement. Tell him I shall 
often think of him, and pray for him, and pray that 
he may live a good unsdfish life, share his wealth 
with others, and be happy. When we are old, old 
people we may perhaps meet — and that is all — ex- 
cept — good-bye.” 

“I will give him this message, and how he will 
hate me!” 

“No, no, he likes you.” A long pause, then with 
an abrupt change of tone, “And so Mrs. Walder- 
share is in Mar war?” 

“Yes. She stayed for a few days with the Blaines, 
and now she has gone to the Imperial Hotel because 
she wishes to be independent.” 

“What is she like?” 

“She is dazzlingly beautiful, with great dark eyes 
that seem to go right across her face.” 

“Yes, I hear she is very good-looking and allur- 
ing.” 

“And most fascinating; all the world admires 
her, and is making a fuss about her. We are giving 
a dinner for her to-morrow, and have asked the 
little baronet, and the Blaines, and Captain Hailes. 
Well, now, I must go; I hear Philip talking to 
your husband. What about to-morrow? When 
shall I see Mr. Lindsay? If he calls on me the ser- 
vants will hear every word — our house is so open — 


BY PROXY 


309 

there are twelve doors in the drawing-room. We 

might walk in the garden if it ’’ 

“ril tell you; drive down to the polo, and pick 
him up in your cart. I hate to ask you to do this 
for me — do you think your husband will mind ?” 

“Oh, no, Philip is never jealous, you know that — > 
if the worst came to the worst, Pd tell him.’' Mrs. 
Gordon sat up and gasped. “Yes, I would, Elinor, 
and I warn you beforehand. But I hope there is 
no question of that. I will meet Mr. Lindsay to- 
morrow, give him your message, and tell him that 
he must go home, that if he stayed here for years 
he would not see you, or hear from you again. I 
shall be firm. There,” and she kissed her com' 
panion’s hand, “I must go.” 

The following afternoon Colonel Gascoigne re- 
turned home early, in order to take Angel for a ride ; 
she looked wan and spiritless, like a flower that was 
drooping. He blamed himself for leaving her in 
that great empty bungalow; was it fair to her, to 
give up so much time to work, and leave her alone? 
And there was something on her mind — what ? 
“Could it be — Alan Lindsay?” he asked himself; 
and a voice answered, “No; you deserve to be shot 
for the suspicion. Angel is not that sort.” No, re- 
torted the little devil Jealousy; but most young 
women are “that sort,” when thrown for two 
months into the daily intimate, picturesque society 
of one of the most well-endowed and irresistible of 
men. With these voices still clamouring in his men- 
tal ears, he arrived at home, and was informed that 
“the Mem Sahib had gone out in the cart, and taken 
John Sahib and Sam Sahib towards the polo;” and 


ANGEL 


310 

he turned his horse, and rode off in that direction. 
Angel was not at the polo, but Mrs. Waldershare 
was there. She beckoned him gaily to her victoria, 
in which sat two men, whilst a third worshipped 
upon the step. 

“Where are you going to, Philip?’^ she inquired, 
with an air of playful authority. 

“Only for a ride. Have you seen Angel?” 

“Your good Angel — oh, yes. She drove away 
just now with such a nice-looking man! They 
went up the road towards the old palace. You 
don’t mean to say you are going too?” and Lola 
gave a wicked little laugh; but Philip affected not 
to hear, and cantered off. 

The palace was now used as a picture-gallery, it 
contained portraits of many rajahs and nawabs, and 
stood in a beautiful garden. It lay beyond the ba- 
zaars, about two miles from the polo. As Gascoigne 
rode along, his head was in a whirl, the hot blood 
was thumping in his heart. What did he mean to 
do ? He could not say. He brought his horse to a 
walk, and made an effort to control his rage, and 
endeavoured to analyse his own sensations. What 
ailed him? Was this jealousy, or merely bad tem- 
per? As he came in sight of the gates, he descried 
the portly figure of John, just crossing the drive in 
chase of a squirrel. Yes, John had betrayed the 
whereabouts of his mistress, and there, by the palace 
entrance, stood her cart, pony, and syce. Mean- 
while Angel had seen Alan Lindsay at the polo, and 
carelessly offered him a seat. As he accepted it with 
alacrity, she said : 

“I have a message for you — several messages.” 


BY PROXY 


311 

‘Then don’t deliver them here, for God’s sake. 
Drive a bit up the road, where we can talk face to 
face.” 

“All right,” she replied; “I’ll go up as far as the 
Suchar Palace; the dogs love the gardens,” and, as 
she spoke, Angel turned her pony’s head, and drove 
rapidly away ; all the time they flew along she never 
once opened her lips. Once at the palace, she sprang 
out, gave the reins to her syce, and said to her com- 
panion : 

“Let us go into the gallery ; we can talk there un- 
disturbed,” and she ran lightly up the stairs. 

The gallery was lined on two sides with gorgeous 
portraits of princes in brocade, white muslin, steel 
armour, or jewels; but the couple never cast a glance 
at one of them, and Lindsay broke the silence by 
asking, in a hoarse voice : 

“Now, what is her message? What does she 
wish you to say for her?” 

“I am to say good-bye,” replied Angel, looking 
at him steadfastly. 

“I won’t listen to it.” 

“You have no choice; you must. She implores 
you to go home at once. What is the use of re- 
maining out here?” 

“Because, even if I do not see her, I am near her 
— and that is something.” 

“It is madness. Will you not do as she wishes ?’' 

“You know well that I would die for her.” 

“And she asks much less than your life — only to 
go — to go — to go.” 

“One would suppose you were talking to a dog !” 
he said angrily. 


ANGEL 


312 

have a great respect for some dogs/’ replied 
Angel ; “you have no respect for Elinor’s wishes. 
Her mind is fixed, she will never see you again ; will 
you force her to leave Marwar?” 

“I wish I could force her to leave it with me.” 

“There, you waste your time and breath! She 
has a strong will, she is passionately sorry for her- 
self and you — she is at the same time deeply humili- 
ated to find that she, a married woman, could suffer 
such anguish. If you have any regard for her, any 
love for her, I beseech you to leave Marwar. She is 
ill, she is miserable, she — oh, if you only saw her as 
I saw her, you would never hesitate, — you cruel 
man.” 

By degrees Alan Lindsay, borne down by the 
force of Angel’s arguments, her expostulations, her 
appeals, gave way. The dusk had suddenly fallen, 
as it does in India; these two, the pleader and the 
pleaded with, could hardly distinguish each other’s 
features. 

“Do you realise that I leave my heart — my very 
life — behind me?” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, but you will be brave, you gain a victory; 
you will see it some day as I see it — you will go.” 

“Angel,” said a voice from the dusk. It was her 
husband who spoke, he was close beside her, and she 
gave a perceptible start, but instantly recovering, 
rejoined, with surpassitig nonchalance. 

“Oh, is it you, Philip? How unexpected. Mr. 
Lindsay and I — have been looking at the pictures.” 

“Yes — that is evident to the meanest intelli- 
gence,” replied Gascoigne, and his voice had a sup- 
pressed sound, and Angel for once distinguished a 
touch of sarcasm, never heard by her before. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


EXPLANATION 

‘‘But you cannot study the Rajah’s pictures any 
longer,” continued Colonel Gascoigne, in a rough 
and dominant tone, and as he spoke he struck a 
match, and confronted, as he anticipated, Alan Lind- 
say — Mr. Lindsay, white as a ghost, and evidently 
shattered by some great mental storm. 

“Shall we go home?” he suggested politely, as he 
struck another match, and lighted the way to the 
head of the stairs, the two picture-seers following 
him down in somewhat awed silence. 

At the foot of the steps stood Angel’s pony cart, 
with its lamps alight, and her husband’s horse. 

“Well, good-bye, Mr. Lindsay,” she said in a cool, 
clear voice, as she turned to him in the entrance. “I 
will write to you sometimes. Philip, Mr. Lindsay is 
leaving for England.” 

“Good-bye, Gascoigne,” he said hoarsely, and he 
held out his hand, but Colonel Gascoigne affected not 
to see it. 

“Oh, good-bye,” he said, shortly. “Angel, get 
in. I will drive you home” ; to the syce, “bring on 
my horse.” He whipped up the cob, and they flew 
down the avenue, leaving Alan Lindsay in the dim, 
dewy garden, to find his way back to the cantonment 
on foot and alone. 

Colonel Gascoigne drove very fast, but he never 
uttered one word, nor did Angel. She was thinking 


ANGEL 


3H 

of the miserable man from whom she had been so 
unceremoniously parted, and a little of her husband. 
He was extremely angry ; never had she known him 
to be angry, but Angel was not the least afraid of 
him. She had done nothing to be ashamed of, and 
once or twice she had felt a mad, almost uncontrol- 
lable desire to scream with laughter. Was Philip 
really jealous — at last? How funny! 

Philip’s head was seething with new ideas. He 
saw himself from a novel point of view, racked by 
many incongruous feelings — the furiously, justly in- 
censed husband. Should he speak now? No, he 
would wait till after dinner, and then have it out with 
her. 

He dashed up under the porch, alighted, handed 
out his wife with his usual courtesy, who walked up 
the steps without a word, and by the light of the 
great verandah lamp he caught a glimpse of her 
face; it recalled the Angel of Ramghur, when she 
was in one of her most defiant moods. They had a 
dinner-party that evening, and Mrs. Gascoigne, 
dressed with her accustomed taste, was exceptionally 
animated and gay, and played hostess to perfection. 
Certainly Angel, as of old, had a hard, fierce, un- 
tamed spirit; she met his glances without wincing, 
and they spoke, when occasion required, with Arctic 
politeness. Then when the last carriage had rumbled 
off, and his wife was trailing away to her room, Gas- 
coigne came in from the verandah, and said : 

“Stop — I wish to speak to you — Angel.” 

“Yes?” The yes was interrogative — sinking 
gracefully into an easy-chair. 

“I am not a jealous man,” he began, abruptly. 


EXPLANATION 


315 

“Who said you were?” It was the Angel of 
Ramghur who retorted. 

“I have” — struggling hard for complete self-com- 
mand — “trusted you absolutely, as if you were my 
very right hand, and eyes ” 

“But you could not believe your eyes this evening, 
I suppose?” she interrupted carelessly, and she 
looked up at him, and then at her white satin shoe. 

“No, I returned home early to take you for a ride; 
I heard you had gone off towards the polo, and fol- 
lowed. At the polo, some one said, ‘If you are look- 
ing for Mrs. Gascoigne, I saw her driving towards 
the Palace.’ I came on, and discovered you there 
with — Lindsay — alone. I heard him say, ‘I leave 
my heart — my life behind me,’ and you answered, 
‘You will be brave — you will go.’ He is going — you 
are to write to him. What does it all mean ? — Angel 
— for God’s sake — tell me the truth ?” 

“I invariably tell you the truth,” she answered 
calmly ; “they say that children and fools always do 
that — I wonder which I am?” 

“But children and fools do not always tell the 
truth,” he objected sharply. 

“When did I ever tell you a lie?” she demanded, 
and her eyes clouded over, — sure prediction of a 
storm. 

“Never, I must honestly admit. Do you — and 
here I ask a plain question — love Lindsay? He is 
handsome, he is fascinating, and madly in love — all 
this I am sane enough to see.” 

“You don’t see much beyond your own nose in 
these matters,” was Angel’s unexpected rejoinder. 


ANGEL 


316 

“At any rate, I won’t see my name disgraced,” he 
answered roughly. 

“It is my name — as much as yours,” she retorted 
haughtily. “What are you driving at ?” 

“Lindsay — is he — no, I can’t say it!” 

“I should hope not. My fancy flies with yours, 
3^ou see. I am sorry you are so much annoyed.” 

“Annoyed!” he repeated. 

“Then the expression is inadequate ; I conclude — 
that words fail you. You wish to ask me if Alan 
Lindsay is my lover? Is that what you desire to 
express ?” 

He nodded his head. 

“He was out in camp with me for two months.” 

“He was.” 

“If I tell you a secret will you swear to keep it ?” 

“Your secrets are generally startling, but on the 
present occasion who runs may read. Lindsay was 
in camp with you for two months ; picturesque sur- 
roundings, propinquity, a very pretty married 
woman — I see it all — he made love to you.” 

“Wrong — guess again.” 

“Why guess — there was no one else.” 

“Pray, what do you call Mrs. Gordon?” 

“I call her the best woman I have ever known — 
surely her influence ” 

Angel raised her slender white hand in protest, 
and said: 

“Here is my secret — please keep it. Alan Lindsay 
is in love — with Mrs. Gordon.” 

^^Angeir cried her husband, with a vehemence 
that brought Sam out of his bed, and caused the ayah 
to creep to a doorway. 


EXPLANATION 


317 

“It is perfectly true/’ she continued calmly. “He 
is madly, wildly, irretrievably devoted to her.” 

“And she?” with an incredulous jeer. 

“The same. It dawned upon me when I was in 
camp; I saw it coming long before it occurred to 
them — I was always sharp, you know.” 

Colonel Gascoigne suddenly sat down and rested 
his elbow on the table, and stared hard at his wife. 
His mind was a battlefield of conflicting ideas. 
Angel had never told him an untruth — no, not even 
at Ramghur; and, as for Mrs. Gordon, had she not 
years of good deeds to speak for her ? 

“They are absolutely suited to each other,” con- 
tinued Angel, suddenly changing her position; she 
no longer lounged with crossed knees, dangling 
arms, and a swinging little satin-clad foot. She sat 
up, leant forward with clasped hands and expressive 
eyes — “yes, they are made for one another — their 
ideas and tastes are identical, but that wooden old 
wretch, who always recalls the god Odin to me, sits 
between them and bars their road to happiness.” She 
drew a long breath. “Yes,” and her voice thrilled 
strangely, her colour rose and her eyes flashed, “it 
seems a perfectly hopeless muddle; there are two 
lives wrecked for a life which is selfish, stolid, emo- 
tionless, and cruel. If I were Elinor, I should run 
away with Alan Lindsay; why should I sacrifice 
everything to a greedy, solid block of self, who 
merely regards his wife as a cook-housekeeper, with- 
out wages — a housekeeper who may never dare to 
give warning?” 

Gascoigne sat up electrified; was this fiercely 


ANGEL 


318 

eloquent, passionate, beautiful creatu/e the rather 
languid, limp, everyday Angel? 

“You look amazed,’^ she cried triumphantly, “and 
well you may. Am I not preaching heresy, I, a mar- 
ried woman ? Since I have told you so much, I will 
tell you more. She’' — throwing out her arms dra- 
matically — “would have gone off with Alan only for 
me.” Gascoigne stared at his wife; he could not 
speak. 

“I am much stronger than I look,” resumed An- 
gel; “who would believe that I, who am but two- 
and-twenty, could influence Mrs. Gordon, who, as 
you once boasted to me, could influence a province!” 

“Who, indeed?” he echoed; but when he saw 
Angel in this exalted mood he was prepared to 
believe in her victories. 

“She was only drawn gradually to the brink, inch 
by inch, step by step ; and, oh, she struggled so hard. 
Alan Lindsay is clever, plausible, eloquent. I found 
her on the brink ; I sounded the recall — the trumpet 
of the assembly of good people, in her ear. I dragged 
her back by moral force.” 

“Yes?” 

“She is nearly dead, she is in a state of mental 
collapse, the fight was so desperate, the struggle be- 
twixt love and duty so severe. / fought for duty,” 
and Angel nodded her head at her stupefied listener. 
“I’m not sure that I shall do it always — I fought well 
— I turned the tide of battle. Alan Lindsay has ac- 
cepted his dismissal and his fate. As a small, small 
alleviation, he may write to me/^ 

There was a long pause, broken only once more 


EXPLANATION 


319 

by the girl’s thin, clear voice inquiring: “What 
have you got to say to me, Philip ?” 

He rose with a sudden impulse and came towards 
her. 

“I say — that you are an Angel — a wingless 
Angel,” and he stooped down and kissed her. 

“So much for jealousy!” she exclaimed, and 
laughed. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


A REFUGEE 

It was seven o’clock in the morning, and under the 
neem trees at the far side of the parade-ground, Mrs. 
Gordon and Mrs. Gascoigne are walking their horses 
side by side. The former has completely re- 
covered from her sharp attack of fever, though her 
face is worn, and bears the trace of suffering. She 
always appeared to great advantage in the saddle, 
and sits her powerful black New Zealander with 
the ease of a finished horsewoman. Mrs. Gordon is 
Irish. 

Angel, looking slim and girlish, is mounted on an 
excitable chestnut, stud-bred, called Carrots, who 
keeps snatching alternately at his bridle, and snap- 
ping at his neighbour — although they are old 
friends, were out in camp together, and have trav- 
elled many miles in company. 

“I have a piece of news for you, Angel,” said Mrs. 
Gordon. ^T was coming round to tell you, when we 
met. Donald has suddenly made up his mind to go 
home for six months.” 

‘‘Oh, Elinor ! what you have been longing for the 
last three years. You want a change — I am so glad 
— and so sorry.” 

‘Tt was all thought of in the usual Indian eleventh 
hour scramble; Donald finds he can get leave, and 
he is suddenly seized with a desperate desire to see 
his book in print — the idea has been simmering for 


A REFUGEE 


32t 

a long time, last night it came to a boil. He wired 
for our passages in the Caledonia for next Friday.” 

‘‘Next Friday — so soon?” 

“Yes; and he has written to Alan Lindsay, telling 
him to meet us. He thinks he will be so useful, to 
him about publishing the book — and ” 

“And ?” said Angel, interrogatively. 

“To Donald’s surprise, I have decided to remain 
out here, and spend the hot weather at Almora with 
the Byrnes.” 

Angel pushed back her Terai hat with her whip 
hand, and stared fixedly at her friend. 

“Mary Byrne is so delicate, and she has those 
four children to look after — my god-child, the eldest 
little thing, is a cripple. No, I am not going home.” 

“I believe you are right,” announced Angel, after 
a pause; “but oh! what a terrible disappointment — 
think of your people.” 

“I do think of them — and of many other things. 
I am always thinking now. I wish to be a happy 
old woman — if ever I am an old woman — to try and 
be faithful to my ideals, and to do my duty — nothing 
else matters.” 

“Do you believe in the doctrine of compensation ? 
If you don’t have some things- — there are others?” 

“It would be a compensation, if you came to Ah 
mora, Angel.” 

Angel shook her head. She was engaged with 
her irritable young horse, who, maddened by a fly, 
had broken into a mad frenzy of kicking, culminat- 
ing in two passionate buck jumps. 

“He wants a good bucketing,” said Mrs. Gordon ; 
“you should take him round the racecourse.” 


ANGEL 


322 

“I should/’ agreed his rider, a little out of breath, 
‘‘but it’s too late this morning. Have you seen Mrs. 
Waldershare yet?” 

“Yes ; I returned her visit yesterday.” 

Angel’s eyes instantly asked a dozen questions, in 
reply to which Mrs. Gordon said : “I do not admire 
her.” 

“But don’t you see that she is beautiful ?” 

“I see that she is a woman of the world. I can 
understand her attraction for some, but I don’t care 
for a slow, coiling manner, or that crooked smile and 
drawl.” 

“Oh, Elinor, I’ve never known you so prejudiced,” 
protested her companion; “she sacrificed her- 
self ” 

“To marry a millionaire,” interrupted Mrs. Gor- 
don. 

“And she has been so nice to me.” 

Mrs. Gordon glanced quickly at Angel. Where 
were her keen susceptibilities? what had become of 
her usually sharp sight? How had this good-look- 
ing, ingratiating, self-seeking widow managed to 
throw dust in those clear eyes ? 

“So you don’t like her,” said Angel ; “now I won- 
der why? You generally classify people so indul- 
gently — where would you place Mrs. Waldershare?” 

“In the reptile house at the Zoo !” was the startling 
rejoinder. “I do not often take a dislike to people, 
but when I do it is invincible.” In answer to her 
friend’s face of blank astonishment, she continued : 
“I sincerely hope you won’t see much of her, 
Angel ?” 

“I cannot see much of her, even if I would, if that 


A REFUGEE 


323 

is any relief to your mind, for I am going into 
Garhwal with Philip/^ 

‘'Ah, that would not be in her trail ; she would not 
care for roughing it in a hut on buffaloes^ milk and 
goats^ flesh. Dear me, how vindictive I am,” she 
exclaimed with a laugh. “I wonder if I am growing 
bitter in my old age?” Then, in a different tone, she 
continued : “How I shall miss you, dear ; you have 
been my life preserver. I was swept away into very 
dark waters, which nearly closed over me. Now I 
have struggled back to land, and I believe I shall see 
the sun once more.” 

“You will enjoy a great deal of sunshine yet, I 
hope,” said Angel, fervently. 

“Reflected only,” she answered, “but quite as 
much as I deserve. To descend from these meta- 
phors, this morning’s sun is getting too strong, I 
must go in. I’ll come round and see you this even- 
ing,” and, with a wave of her whip, Mrs. Gordon 
turned homewards; and Angel, giving Carrots his 
head at last, galloped across the parade-ground at 
full speed. When she had gone more than half-way, 
she descried a man, followed by two small white ob- 
jects. It was Philip, returning from the brigade 
office on foot. He signalled with his hand, which 
was full of officials, and she charged up to him at 
once. 

“Have your orders come ?” she asked anxiously. 

“No, but I expect them hourly. It is too late for 
you to be out this hot morning, and high time you 
were up in the hills.” 

“Yes, in Garhwal — remember your promise, 
Phil.” 


324 ANGEL 

“You may follow later, but I could not possibly 
take you now” 

“Why not?” 

“I shall have to make arrangements, and put up 
some kind of a house. Angel, I warn you most 
solemnly that the life will be monotonous ; you won’t 
like it — you have evolved an elysium out of your 
imagination. The reality is — Tartar faces, Tar- 
tar fare, forbidding, barren mountains, and a distinct 
flavour of central Asian squalor.” 

“So much the better,” she answered recklessly. “I 
want to break new ground, and explore a land be- 
yond curling-pins and fashions ; I am longing 
for a change.” 

“That you may certainly reckon on.” 

“I don’t want a pretty hill station, with bands, and 
garden parties, and three posts a day. I wish to get 
away from every one, among the wild, bare moun- 
tains, catch the spirit of your work, and perhaps 
overtake an adventure.” 

“Or be overtaken by one, in the shape of a bear 
or a landslip. Well, I suppose you must have your 
way. I have arranged to rent Rockstone, the War- 
ings’ house at the Chotah Bilat — you know it. It is 
very pretty and secluded, sufficiently aloof from the 
madding crowd, and close to the Colliers, who will 
look after you. By the end of May I shall either 
come and fetch you or send a strong escort to bring 
you into Garhwal. How will that suit you, Mrs. G. ?” 

“I suppose it will have to do,” she answered, dis- 
contentedly; “but I shall loathe being up at Bilhat 
by myself.” 


A REFUGEE 


325 

'Terhaps you can find some companion — Mrs. 
Gordon?” 

‘'No, I’ve just been talking to her. Odin is taking 
six months’ leave to England, and she is going to 
Almora to do children’s maid, and sick nurse.” 

“Penance,” muttered Gascoigne under his breath. 
“Hullo, I say — ^what are we overtaking?” and he 
pointed to a large bullock cart which had just turned 
into their gate. It was heavily laden with boxes and 
trunks of all shapes and descriptions. On the summit 
of the pile a steamer chair was poised precariously, 
on which we can distinguish (though they cannot) 
the name “Waldershare” in full-sized letters. A 
sharp-looking, elderly maid, carrying a white um- 
brella, and a square green crocodile case, followed 
the luggage on foot. 

“Oh, some mistake,” said Angel carelessly — “the 
wrong bungalow.” 

“By the way, I have a note for you,” said Colonel 
Gascoigne, suddenly searching among the papers in 
his hand. “I forgot all about it — a peon came with 
it to the office; he said it was important,” and as he 
spoke he handed it up. 

“Why, it’s from Mrs. Waldershare,” exclaimed 
Angel when she had torn it open and glanced at the 
contents. She pushed her hat to the back of her head 
— a trick of hers — pulled Carrots to a standstill, and 
read it aloud. 

“Dear Angel — You will be a good Angel to me, 
and take me under your wing, when I tell you that 
there is a case of small-pox in the hotel compound, 
a disease of which I have an unspeakable horror. I 


ANGEL 


326 

know you have an empty spare room and I am sure 
that Philip would not like to feel that his old play- 
mate was enduring misery and risking danger. I 
have packed and sent off my luggage. Do please 
say I may come at once. — Your terrified, Lola."^' 

"‘Well?” said Angel, as she concluded, and looked 
down into Philip’s eyes. 

“Of course your terrified Lola must come at once; 
we will send the carriage over for her. I had no idea 
there was small-pox in the station. The sooner you 
are off the better.” 

“And pray, what can I do with Mrs. Walder- 
share?” she inquired, stuffing the note into her sad- 
dle pocket. 

“Oh, she is bound to have made her own plans. 
By Jove, here she comes in one of the hotel vic- 
torias.” 

After hastily welcoming her guest, Mrs. Gas- 
coigne hurried away to make her arrangements for 
Lola, her maid, and her belongings, leaving the two 
old play-fellows tete-a-tete in the verandah. Mrs. 
Waldershare was suitably dressed in a cool white 
cambric, and a shady hat; a great bunch of helio- 
trope was stuck in her belt. Her face was pathet- 
ically pale, and her dark eyes were tragic, as she 
turned to her host and said, with a quick, dramatic 
gesture : 

“Oh, it is too bad of me to take you by storm in 
this way, but I am such a miserable coward ; though 
if anything did happen to me, there is no one to care 
now,” and her voice sank. “It is such a misfortune 


A REFUGEE 


327 

that Edgar is on the march, and here I am, left 
adrift/’ 

^‘You must not talk like this, Lola,” interrupted 
Philip. “lam glad you came to us, — you know you 
are welcome here. Don’t trouble your head, but 
make yourself at home. Angel will be delighted to 
have you. We were only saying a few minutes ago 
that she must have a companion when I go away.” 

“Oh,” with a little gasp, “when are you going?” 

“In a day or two, on duty into Garhwal, and An- 
gel will be all by herself, at any rate, until she goes to 
the hills.” 

Jjc 3|t J|C 3|e Jjc 

An hour later, Mrs. Waldershare, having seen her 
dresses unpacked, her odds and ends arranged, and 
written off half-a-dozen notes — announcing her 
change of address — dismissed Tile, her maid, and 
threw herself down on a lounge with a sigh of inex- 
pressible satisfaction. 

Yes, she had managed it capitally, taken the posi- 
tion at a rush — “now established here,” and she 
glanced round the comfortable bedroom ; “here” she 
determined to remain. 

“/’y suis et fy reste/* she murmured to herself 
with a smile. What had become of the pale, dis- 
traught, excited, and apologetic Lola? 

Philip was perfectly right when he declared that 
Lola was certain to have made her plans, but if he 
had been an accomplished thought-reader, and been 
able to fathom them, his surprise would have been 
unbounded. 

Mrs. Waldershare’s small supply of funds was 
ebbing rapidly; to live in a suitable style, which in- 


ANGEL 


328 

dudes a maid, a carriage, and constant little dinners, 
costs a considerable sum even in India ; and at hotels, 
of course, it is a matter of ready money. The last 
week’s bill had proved a disagreeable surprise; the 
manager had thrown out hints respecting late par- 
ties, and declared that other residents had com- 
plained of loud talking, and carriage wheels, at un- 
usual hours. 

Mrs. Waldershare’s reply was extremely dignified 
and crushing, but she realised that it was time to exe- 
cute a fresh manoeuvre. People were beginning 
to talk of moving to the hills; what was to be- 
come of her? Moneyless, friendless, abandoned on 
the plains? Edgar had written such a cool letter, 
announcing that he was sending his wife home, and 
spending the hot weather in Seetapore, where, if she 
liked, Lola could join him. In one sense, there could 
hardly be a warmer invitation! But this scheme 
did not commend itself to his sister, who lay with 
her eyes half-closed lazily contemplating her castles 
in the air. The Gascoignes were wealthy and liberal 
(so every one said) ; generosity undoubtedly begins 
with old friends. She would lay herself out to culti- 
vate Angel — she would be cautious ; she resolved to 
walk, so to speak, on tip-toe, so as never to awaken 
the young woman’s dormant jealousy, which she in- 
stinctively felt would be easily aroused. She and 
Philip would be on “brother and sister,” “old 
friends” footing; indeed, Philip was now so cool, 
so detached, so indifferent, she could hardly bring 
herself to believe that he had ever been her lover, 
and that she might have been his wife for years and 
years, the mistress of this charming house. No, she 


A REFUGEE 


329 

and this Philip would never have assimilated ; he was 
much too masterful, too strait-laced, and too austere. 

She would play her cards carefully, with Angel; 
there must be fewer cigarettes, and French novels, 
and no roulette. As the older and more experienced 
woman, she would influence her, and once they were 
alone, she would gradually assume the lead, gain her 
confidence, and learn her secrets; later on, accom- 
pany her to the delightful little chalet that she heard 
had been rented in the hills, mix with the gay 
throng, and marry. Possibly little Cupid — unless 
she could do better, — and return home. Lady Tudor. 
All this would cost her nothing but a little care, a 
little flattery, and a certain amount of invention. 
With these satisfactory arrangements in her mind, 
Mrs. Waldershare’s eyes gradually closed, and she 
fell asleep into a deep and refreshing slumber. 

Before proceeding further, it may as well be 
stated that the small-pox scare proved to be com- 
pletely unfounded and was subsequently traced to 
Mrs. Waldershare’s ayah, who waited on that lady’s 
lady’s-maid. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


A GOOD BILLET 

The unexpected guest, pleading a nervous head- 
ache (the result of fright), did not appear at tiffin, 
but emerged later in the afternoon, wearing a sub- 
dued expression, and a fantastic loosely-fitting gar- 
ment, which gave the uninitiated occasion to marvel 
how it was put on ? and why it did not come off ? It 
was a confection from Paris, more suitable to a 
Parisian artiste than a respectable British widow, 
and the dogs looked at each other and winked. 

‘T just slipped into this,” explained Lola to her 
hostess. ‘Tt is so deliciously light — quite the latest 
thing in tea-gowns,” and she sank into a chair with 
a complacent sigh. 

“Oh, is it really? I thought it was a saute du lit/' 

“You can have it copied if you like,” kindly ignor- 
ing such deplorable ignorance. 

“Thank you,” said Angel, demurely, “but it is 
not a style which would suit me.” 

“No, dear, perhaps you are a little too thin. I see 
you are having tea out here,” continued the unin- 
vited guest. “How delightful! I daresay some of 
my friends will drop in to inquire how I got over 
my scare — you won’t mind ?” 

“No, of course not; I shall be delighted to see 
them. Excuse me for a moment, while I take this 
telegram to Philip,” and Mrs. Waldershare was left 
for a moment alone with Sam and John. 


A GOOD BILLET 


331 

They both disliked her most cordially. She jeered 
at John, and made rude remarks about his figure — 
he was extremely sensitive to ridicule. She sat in 
Sam’s favourite chair, and had once flung him off 
her lap with a violence that hurt him. Then they ab- 
horred the atmosphere of heliotrope and pearl pow- 
der, and felt instinctively that the intruder hated ani- 
mals, and was a ‘'human” to be most carefully 
avoided. As they sat glaring at the interloper, and 
exchanging their opinions of her, the lady’s friends 
appeared in a hired landau. Sir Capel, General Both- 
well, and Mrs. Alley-Lacy, who was profanely 
known as Mrs. Laissez-Aller, an exuberant, talk- 
ative woman of uncertain age and proclivities, but 
who was obviously rich, agreeable, and beautifully 
dressed, and had come to India, she declared, solely 
on account of her health. She could not endure the 
English climate, and India was an interesting change 
from Egypt, where she had wintered hitherto. Mrs. 
Lacy might be classed as “an hotel lady,” for she had 
no permanent home and no permanent ties, and 
seemed well acquainted with all the principal hostel- 
ries in Europe. 

The third visitor was General Bothwell, retired ; a 
wiry, dapper little man, with a large authoritative- 
looking nose, a voice to correspond, and a pointed 
snow-white beard. He entertained an extremely 
high opinion of R. Bothwell, K.C.B., who once upon 
a time had carried out an insignificant but suc- 
cessful expedition — and had lived upon his repu- 
tation ever since. He was a terrible correspondent, 
the high priest of bore, and his chief enjoyment in 
life consisted in asking questions, expounding his 


ANGEL 


332 

views, and proclaiming what ought to be done under 
certain circumstances. He had mentally conducted 
every recent campaign, and, according to his own 
account, all the chief men at the War Office were his 
personal friends, and he was their valuable adviser. 
A widower with ample means, and ample time on 
his hands, he had just run down to re-visit his old 
haunts in order to ascertain how the great Indian 
Empire was getting on without him. The General 
had made Mrs. Waldershare’s acquaintance at the 
Imperial Hotel and admired her from a paternal 
standpoint ; her attitude to him and others was that 
of serene friendliness and warm interest. 

‘‘Oh, how could you desert us, Mrs. Walder- 
share?” said Sir Capel, accosting her dramatically. 

“See, we have all come in a body to take you 
back,” added Mrs. Lacy, with a careful kiss. 

“You have stolen a march,” proclaimed the Gen- 
eral; “these are comfortable free quarters — a good 
billet. Better than the Imperial !” 

“Yes; the Gascoignes have been most pressing,” 
said Lola; “so kind. They were greatly averse to 
my staying at an hotel.” 

She paused. The couple were coming out on the 
verandah, to find her and the table thus surrounded. 
After a few minutes’ greetings and talk. General 
Bothwell said : 

“So I hear you are off, Gascoigne. I met Hawkins 
at the gate, and he told me.” 

“Yes; I’ve had a wire, and I leave to-morrow for 
Garhwal.” 

“About this lake scare — most unnecessary fuss, 
don’t you think so, eh?” 


A GOOD BILLET 


333 

‘‘No; I’m on the other tack — better be sure than 
sorry.” 

“Please do explain all about it,” said Mrs. Lacy; 
“I am so interested.” 

“The explanation is, that an enormous landslip 
has dammed up a large valley, and a mountain river, 
and turned it into a lake, five miles long and four 
hundred feet deep.” 

“That’s big enough for canoeing,” remarked Sir 
Capel. 

“It’s filling at the rate of three feet a day, and as 
soon as the water reaches the top of the dam — say 
in a month or six weeks — the dam will burst and 
flood a hundred and fifty miles of country.” 

“What a sight it will be ! I’d give a lot to see it,” 
said Sir Capel. “Niagara broke loose in India.” 

“It will certainly be an unprecedented sight.” 

“And what measures are you engineer chaps 
taking?” inquired General Bothwell, with his mouth 
full of bread and butter. 

“Merely precautions. We cannot let the water off 
under control ; all we can do is to ensure that it es- 
capes down the river bed — without loss of life.” 

“Can’t be many lives to lose up there,” he argued. 

“Yes; besides the villagers, there are thousands 
of pilgrims who pass down to Hurdwar in May and 
June, and we are bound to know to a day — in fact, 
to an hour — when the flood is due.” 

“What can you do ?” 

“We have established a temporary telegraph line 
from the lake to ten stations where pilgrims halt, 
and at good points, from which to control the traffic. 
Pillars are erected every half-mile to show the safe 


ANGEL 


334 

limits out of reach of the flood, and all the principal 
bridges are being dismantled. As soon as the water 
reaches the crest of the dam, the official in charge 
will send a warning telegram, for the flood will 
travel fast.’’ 

“I suppose the natives are terrified out of their 
senses?” asked Mrs. Lacy. 

^‘No, not in the least ; they think it will pass quietly 
over the river bed, and this is the view of the pil- 
grims, who are furious because their ordinary route 
is forbidden.” 

‘^By Jove, and I don’t wonder,” said General 
Bothwell, combatively. '‘Instead of arranging for 
the outlet of the water, a telegraph line has been 
erected — no doubt at immense cost — to apprise peo- 
ple of the danger of a flood which may come in a 
month, a year — or never!” and he laughed deri- 
sively. "I think, whoever has hit on the telegraph 
as a means of dealing with an engineering difficulty, 
will look uncommonly foolish.” 

"I am the culprit,” coolly confessed Gascoigne. 
"To divert the lake otherwise would cost two 
million of rupees; India is poor, and there is not time 
to erect masonry weirs, outfalls, and shoots.” 

"And so,” said Sir Cupid, "you have resolved to 
let it slide? And you believe there will be a big 
flood?” 

"Yes, I am sure of it,” replied Gascoigne, with 
emphasis. 

"How I should like to see it.” 

"I shall see it,” announced Angel. "Philip has 
promised to take me with him.” 


A GOOD BILLET 


335 

“Much against his will/’ he supplemented, with a 
laugh. 

“But I am going in spite of him,” she answered, 
with a glance of gay defiance. “I was born in the 
Himalayas ; I am a hill woman.” 

“Yes; that is certain,” said Sir Capel, promptly. 

“Pray, how do you know?” 

“Because you are not a plain woman.” 

“How can you be so ridiculous?” she remon- 
strated, impatiently. 

“Surely you are not going off immediately,” said 
Mrs. Alley-Lacy, “to see this wonderful dam?” 
bringing out the last word with considerable unction. 

“No, not just yet. I wish I were!” 

“And what will become of you ?” 

“Mrs. Gascoigne and I are going to look after one 
another,” volunteered Mrs. Waldershare, laying her 
hand on Angel’s arm with an air of affectionate pro- 
prietorship. “I shall take care of her. She is left in 
my charge, is she not, Philip?” and she appealed to 
him with her eloquent eyes. 

Philip was considerably taken aback, but he rallied 
with his usual elasticity, and said : 

“Oh, Angel has an old head on young shoul- 
ders. I shall make her responsible for the house — 
and I shall ask Padre Eliot to keep an eye on both of 
you.” 

“Well, Gascoigne,” said General Bothwell, stand- 
ing up and shaking crumbs out of his beard, “I must 
confess that I am amused at this scheme of yours — 
/ don’t believe in scaring people, you know. I think 
you are on the wrong tack — the wrong tack — but 


ANGEL 


336 

you Engineer chaps are, in my experience, the most 
pig-headed branch of the service.’^ 

“Still, sir, I think you must admit that we earn 
our bread and butter ?” 

“Butter — oh, yes ! — you get more than enough of 
that,” retorted the General, pointedly. 

“You won’t get any butter in Garhwal,” an- 
nounced Sir Capel, “of any sort or kind ; only black 
bread and cucumbers — awful grub! Eve been up 
reading a lot about this water-shoot — all the same I 
wish you’d take me with you, Gascoigne.” 

“In what capacity.” 

“Oh, as dhoby, dog boy, special correspondent — 
anything,” and Sir Capel put his hands together, and 
his head on one side, and looked extremely ridic- 
ulous. 

“No, no, my dear fellow,” rejoined Gascoigne 
with a laugh, and a significant glance at Mrs. Wal- 
dershare. “How could the ladies spare you?” 

In two days’ time Colonel Gascoigne had left 
home, and Angel for once was not disconsolate. 
She analysed her feelings, dug down deeply into her 
motives, and the sensation she there discovered was 
not sorrow, but relief. She had been dimly aware 
of a vague uneasiness, an intangible dread of devel- 
opments. All this was at an end now. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


JOINT HOSTESS 

And thus Mrs. Waldershare was established 
as Mrs. Gascoigne’s chaperone and companion; 
and the station, who considered it a most excellent 
arrangement, and but yet another proof of her 
husband’s good sense, cried Wah ! wah ! They had 
been duly informed of the ancient friendship which 
had existed between his parents and Mrs. Walder- 
share’s. There was no mention of a love affair — 
crafty Lola had set back the intimacy a whole 
generation — it was discreetly cloaked in the mantle 
of years. Mrs. Nobbs, who acted as spokeswoman 
for Mrs. Grundy, eagerly assured every one she 
met that she highly approved of the move. It was 
most unbecoming (favourite word) for a young 
married woman to be left alone, and Mrs. Walder- 
share was such a quiet, sensible, charming chape- 
rone, — and so clever. Truly she was marvellously 
clever; in some gradual, inexplicable fashion, she 
assumed the lead of the household. Yes, without 
sound, or beat of drum. She was joint hostess, 
not guest; there was a solid, resistless force in her 
character that Angel was powerless to combat. 
At early morning, or afternoon tea, it was no un- 
common thing for her to find Mrs. Waldershare 
already seated before the teapot. This position 
carries a certain status with it, and Lola’s visitors 


338 ANGEL 

went so far as to assume from the air of nonchalant 
hospitality with which she offered cream and cakes, 
that she was “sharing expenses.” 

This was precisely how she wished it to be 
understood. To Angel, a sort of guest at her own 
table, she offered playful apologies, and assurances 
that “she was the best tea maker in England, and 
liked to save her dear child trouble.” 

But there was one lady who regarded the new 
menage with the gravest misgivings, and this was 
Mrs. Gordon, who, before departing to the hills, 
had confided her fears to Padre Eliot. 

“I do not trust Mrs. Waldershare,” she said. 

“Why not?” he asked, “she is quiet, and hand- 
some, and ladylike.” 

“She is a clever, crafty woman, not too scrupu- 
lous in money matters. I believe” — lowering 
her voice — “that she gambles ! Of course, I have 
no business to have prejudices and to hear gossip.” 

“It is not like you, certainly,” he said, with his 
broad smile. “I believe there has been gambling in 
the station somewhere, recently; one or two boys 
have been hard hit, — but why suspect a lady?” 

“It is more than suspicion. How I wish Colonel 
Gascoigne had not left Angel with that woman. 
It is like leaving a lamb to a wolf.” 

“She shall not devour her — I’ll see to that,” he 
said, playfully. 

“No, but she will use her as her blind, and her 
banker.” 

“Well, I think you may trust Mrs. Gascoigne,” 
he said, “her conduct has always given evidence 
of extraordinary good sense, and a certain amount 


JOINT HOSTESS 339 

of latent force.” As Mrs. Gordon had excellent 
reason to acquiesce in this dictum, she was silent. 

But her instinct had not deceived her, day by 
day — nay, hour by hour, Angel fell more and more 
under the elder woman’s influence. It was as if 
she had been hypnotised, she surrendered her will 
to her, and took up a subordinate position with 
unquestioning resignation. Although the clever 
widow was careful not to offend any of the girl’s 
prejudices and susceptibilities, the household was 
ordered to Mrs. Waldershare’s liking, — and the 
servants hated her almost as bitterly as the dogs. 
Never put out, never excited, the lady rolled along 
over all little obstacles, a veritable Juggernaut of 
self. She instituted late hours — Angel was 
naturally an early bird. She enjoyed elaborate and 
dainty meals, Angel preferred very simple fare; she 
liked long drives in the moonlight, sometimes 
keeping the horses out till midnight; occasionally 
she took Mrs. Lacy with her, or Sir Capel, and 
Angel remained at home. Lola was so clever, so 
seductive, so persuasive, that everything she said 
or did had the air of being absolutely faultless — 
the one and only speech or action possible under 
the circumstances. 

She and her hostess sat a good deal together in 
the darkened drawing-room, for now that the 
weather was warmer, punkahs were moving, 
“tatties” were installed. Mrs. Waldershare knitted 
silk ties and socks with firm white fingers, whilst 
Angel drew, and sometimes they scarcely ex- 
changed a word in an hour. Lola was not talk- 
ative, she never talked simply for the sake of con- 


ANGEL 


34 ° 

versation. Her silence impressed Angel far more 
than speech; she felt that Lola could tell her so 
much if she would, yes, so much about Philip, and 
she was sensible of a certain awe, and the strivings 
and painful contortions of a never-to-be appeased 
curiosity, and what was worse, a sleepless jeal- 
ousy. She was humbly conscious that she was far 
inferior to this calm, beautiful, dignified creature, 
and as she stole long glances at her companion, 
she would tell her envious heart that Philip had 
been engaged to her for four years, twice as long 
as she had been his wife. He had known Lola for 
thirty years! How could a man outgrow a love 
like that? It was rooted in his very childhood. 
Lola had some dim intuition of what was passing 
in her companion’s thoughts, and smiled, saying 
to herself, “Silly girl, she is always wondering. 
How wretched I could make her if I chose !” 

Although the station was emptying, there were 
still a number of people in Marwar, and Mrs. 
Gascoigne, at Mrs. Waldershare’s suggestion, had 
a few friends to dinner now and then. On the 
occasion of Lola’s birthday — so-called — Angel 
gave a little party and asked the heroine of the 
occasion to invite her own guests. Mrs. Lacy, 
Sir Capel, Captain Hailes, and the General were 
among these, and the little affair went off ad- 
mirably. As usual, all the organisation and trou- 
ble were Angel’s share; she took great pains with 
the menu, the menu cards, and the flowers 
(Lola was so critical), whilst Lola had, as cus- 
tomary, all the enjoyment. She was arrayed in a 
marvellous and filmy gown, and wore a beautiful 


JOINT HOSTESS 341 

diamond heart and arrow — surprisingly similar to 
one that Crackett, the Delhi hawker, had been 
offering for sale. Her health was drunk, and she 
made a pretty speech. After dinner, there was 
music, and at eleven o’clock the General and 
several others took their departure. Then Mrs. 
Waldershare, with a widely encompassing flash of 
her dark eyes, suggested “Cards,” adding “the 
night is just beginning.” Angel’s pale face ex- 
pressed not merely fatigue but dismay, and her 
friend exclaimed, “No, no, dear — we won’t bore 
you. You look so tired, Mrs. Lacy will excuse 
you, won’t you?” appealing to that lady, who 
replied : 

“Certainly, I hope Mrs. Gascoigne will not be 
ceremonious with me.” 

“And I’ll play hostess, and see them off the 
premises,” said Lola, playfully. Accepting this 
assurance, and offering many apologies, Angel, 
who had a bad neuralgic headache, thankfully re- 
tired to bed, and after a long time fell asleep. She 
seemed to have slept for hours when she awoke 
with a violent start, aroused by a sound like the 
overturning of a chair. Could it be burglars? She 
»at up and listened with a beating heart. Then she 
heard a cock crow — it must be close on dawn. 
She struck a match, lighted a candle, jumped out 
of bed, and got into her dressing-gown, and 
waited. Surely there were steps and voices out- 
side; was it in the ante-room, or where? Had she 
obeyed her first impulse, and gone into the draw- 
ing-room, she would have discovered the card- 


ANGEL 


342 

party, consisting of four men and two ladies, just 
breaking up. They had risen from the table. 

“Look here,” said Lola, carelessly handing a bit 
of notepaper to Captain Hailes. “I make it that.” 

He glanced at the total, and became suddenly 
white — nay, grey — but rallied, and said, “It’s all 
right, I expect.” 

“Been hard hit, eh, Hailes?” enquired the little 
baronet, playfully. “I come of! only seventy to 
the bad.” 

Yes, they had been gambling; and how dis- 
sipated it all looked, the candles flaring in their 
sockets, the lamps smoking, tablecloth awry, and 
cards scattered over the floor. 

Angel, who had looked at her watch, and seen 
that the hour was four o’clock, came out into the 
ante-room, candle in hand. Here she was sud- 
denly confronted by a figure with a shawl over her 
head — Tile. 

“Oh, what is the matter?” she enquired, breath- 
lessly. 

“I’ve been feeling so ill, ma’am,” she moaned, 
“such a turn as I’ve had. It’s this climate as does 
not suit me. I feel like dying and I was — coming 
to ask if you had such a thing as a medicine 
chest?” 

“Of course I have,” replied Mrs. Gascoigne, 
profoundly relieved; “it is in my own room. Come 
with me and I will doctor you,” turning back as 
she spoke. “How do you feel?” 

“All cold and shivers like — and a sort of quak- 
ing in my inside.” 

“Oh then, perhaps," opening a cupboard, “this 


JOINT HOSTESS 343 

cordial will do you good. At least it will do you 
no harm.’’ As Angel spoke, she seized a bottle, 
and a measuring-glass. 

By-and-bye, as Tile crept stealthily to her own 
quarters, she encountered her mistress, who had 
been extinguishing lamps and candles, and setting 
the drawing-room straight. 

“I met her in the doorway,” she whispered with 
a scared face. 'T told her I was took ill, and she 
gave me a cordial — she is as innocent as a lamb.” 

‘'My goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Waldershare, 
her eyes widening in alarm, “that was a narrow 
escape.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


INTO GARHWAL 

Rockstone Chotah-Bilat, the joint address of 
Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Waldershare, was a 
large well-appointed bungalow, over-looking the 
prettiest side of the station, approached through a 
steep terraced garden, full of great bushes of 
ancient geraniums, and straggling rose trees, and 
flanked by a few pines. 

The house was sufficiently roomy to accom- 
modate half a dozen people; and here the two 
inmates lived their separate lives, together and yet 
apart. The partnership was so harmonious as to 
excite a certain degree of admiration as well as 
envy; for it is a painful fact that these house- 
sharing schemes are not invariably a success. 

Mrs. Waldershare was charmed with what she 
termed “a Himalayan Paradise’’; her own chief 
friends were comfortably established at the Casino 
Hotel, or the Club, and she made a number of 
new acquaintances. The constant whirl of picnics, 
tiffins, dinners, dances, incidental to a gay hill 
station, the opportunity of exhibiting her toilettes, 
of living without expense, and of enjoying an 
occasional ‘‘game” — all this comprised a phase of 
existence supremely to Lola’s taste. She pos- 
sessed her own roulette board, and both board and 
owner were in flattering request. The board ac- 
companied Mrs. Waldershare to luncheon parties, 
and to teas and dinners at “the Wigwam,” and 
elsewhere. The Wigwam was a pretty little 


INTO GARHWAL 


345 

house, occupied by a smart married couple, much 
given to play of every description; their gay 
suppers were notorious, and their guests might 
have been discovered guiltily creeping in to their 
respective homes, with the dawn. Angel had not 
paid the usual round of calls, or embarked on the 
flood-tide of entertainments. She felt no inclina- 
tion to dance, and suffered from constant neu- 
ralgia, and depression. One or two of her friends 
had sought her, but she declined their invitations; 
and when a lady resides in an out-of-the-way 
locality, in a sequestered bungalow, and is disin- 
clined to entertain, or to be entertained, people in 
the full swing of the season have no leisure to 
cultivate such a recluse — and leave her severely 
alone. Mrs. Gascoigne was to be seen at church 
(at St. John’s, in the Wilderness) on Sunday; on 
week days, rambling far along the unfrequented 
hill-tracks, merely accompanied by two dogs. To 
Angel’s intimates, Mrs. Waldershare professed a 
devoted attachment to the dear, sweet girl, a keen 
anxiety respecting her health, and declared that 
she was “just a little bit run down,” all this being 
accompanied by effusive encomiums. To her 
own circle she proclaimed that her housemate was 
“peculiar.” This, with a significance that led 
strangers to suppose that Mrs. Gascoigne was 
eccentric to the verge of imbecility. Lola^s man- 
ner to Angel was perfect. A mixture of the 
tender elder sister, and the sincerely attached 
friend; but she and her hostess did not see much 
of one another, except at breakfast. Soon after 
this meal, Mrs. Waldershare’s gaily-costumed 
jampannies (they wore black and yellow livery, and 


ANGEL 


346 

yellow turbans) carried their charming burden 
away for the whole day, she merely returning home 
in order to dress, or occasionally to receive the 
General and Sir Capel. No apologies were neces- 
sary, for Angel appreciated solitude, and they each 
went their own way; for that was understood in 
an unwritten bond. But when the monsoon broke 
in the middle of June, the rain descended in steady 
gray sheets, and roared and battered on the zinc 
roof of Rockstone, there were no more gay jaunts 
or excursions down into Chotah-Bilat. The six 
hillmen shed their wasp-like costumes, and huddled 
in their brown blankets, or “cumlies,” squatted 
round like a huka, talking scandal and money mat- 
ters, in their quarters among the pines. 

Their employer sat indoors, beside a blazing 
log fire, inditing sweet little notes on a knee-pad, 
and knitting ties in becoming shades of purse silk. 
Angel crouched on the large, square-shaped fender- 
stool (which was hollow underneath, and a retreat 
dear to the dogs) and read, and sewed, and talked. 
For a whole week these two were condemned to a 
species of solitary confinement. At first, they 
discoursed of the elements (how Mrs. Waldershare 
railed against the rains! — the life of India), the 
forthcoming great fancy ball, and the Chamoli 
Lake. From lake to Philip was but a short 
step, and by-and-by Angel found herself listening 
with eager ears, to stories of her husband’s child- 
hood and boyhood. By degrees these anecdotes 
were merged into tales of Philip as a youth, as a 
young man — as (here Angel’s interest was breath- 
less) — a lover. 

Clever Lola drew a sketch of those four supreme 


INTO GARHWAL 


347 

years with the hand of a true artist, permitting the 
listener’s warm imagination to colour and fill in 
the outlines. Angel contemplated the picture 
which her own brain completed, with a mixture of 
anguish, jealousy, and despair. How Philip had 
loved Lola! though Lola never once said so in 
plain, cold English; but a broken-off sentence, a 
look, a quick sigh, imparted more than words. 
And he had written to her daily, whilst she, his 
wife, hungered for two weeks for a line. But then, 
oh most exacting Angel, there is no daily post in 
Garhwal; letters had to come one hundred and 
fifty miles by a very casual Dak runner. 

Lola gave her companion the impression of 
recalling these poignant recollections, with the 
deepest reluctance, and all the time the game— • 
which lasted for eight whole days — afforded her 
the keenest enjoyment. She was as a cat playing 
with a mouse, and at the end of the play her 
victim’s heart was as lacerated as any little tortured 
corpse. Angel acknowledged that she had brought 
this misery entirely upon herself; her anxiety for 
information had led her into a very cavern of 
despair. Philip still loved Lola, for according to 
that lady’s dictum, which she humbly accepted, 
^‘It is a law of the universe, for a man to love one 
woman, and none other”; and when Lola turned 
her wonderful eyes upon her — those eyes, large, 
mysterious, sad, and visionary — Angel felt that she 
could not be otherwise than truthful and good. 
Oh, she must tear that secret feeling of repulsion 
out of her heart, and be as sincerely attached to 
Lola, as Lola was to her. She would love her, and 
befriend her, loyally and faithfully — for Philip’s sake. 


ANGEL 


348 

A gleam of fine weather, a break in the rains, 
released the two prisoners, and each hastened to 
repair to her familiar haunts; Lola to the assembly 
rooms, the Wigwam, and the polo-ground, Angel 
to take her walks abroad, as far as possible from 
the giddy throng. She longed to see Philip again, 
to contemplate him from a new point of view, to 
endeavour to discover his real attitude towards 
Lola. But perhaps he would never tell her the 
truth, he could be a mystery when he chose. 
Lola was, and ever would be, first in his heart, and 
she must make up her mind to accept the second 
place. Angel was absolutely miserable, and as she 
lingered on the hill-sides, watching the ghostly 
white mists creeping up between the mountains, 
and filling every ravine and valley, till they touched 
the spot where she stood, and overwhelmed her, 
she felt as if a great cloud from which there was 
no escape, had suddenly descended upon her life. 

In these days of their mistress’s inaction and 
depression, Sam and John offered much mute 
sympathy, and protection. They did not forsake 
her in order to seek their own amusement — no, 
not even to meet their friends and foes upon the 
Mall, but formed her constant bodyguard. At 
night, Sam occupied the most comfortable chair in 
her room, whilst John sprawled outside the door 
on a mat. And he never failed to rise and bark, 
in order to announce the tardy return of the other 
lady, — for which officious act, Mrs. Waldershare 
would have gladly had him poisoned. 

Early one morning in July, an imposing head 
overseer, two chuprassis, and a dozen stout hill- 


INTO GARHWAL 


349 

men, were to be found assembled in front of Rock- 
stone. The overseer had brought a letter from 
‘Gascoigne Sahib,” and the lady was to start at 
once, before there was more rain. Angel’s heart 
leaped at the message, it was her order of release. 
She made joyful preparations for immediate de- 
parture — indeed, these preparations had been com- 
pleted for weeks. 

“And pray what is to become of poor me?” 
inquired Lola in a doleful voice, “where am I to 
go?” 

“You can stay here, till the end of our term of 
course,” responded her hostess. 

“And the servants?” 

“They can remain too — I am only taking the 
ayah with me.” 

“Then I shall ask Mrs. Lacy to keep me com- 
pany,” announced the guest. “I shall be so wretched 
without you, you dear, sweet, unselfish girl.” 
And this bold lie had a flavour of the truth, — Lola 
would miss Angel in many ways. 

“Very well,” assented her hostess, “do just what 
you please.” She was so anxious to depart that 
she was prepared to promise anything — oh any- 
thing, in order to escape. Yes, it had come to 
that. As long as she was within reach of Lola’s 
extraordinary personal charm, she felt benumbed, 
a strange, unhappy, powerless mortal. Lola’s 
magnetism and will force were so strong, that 
Angel shivered inwardly as she realised that if her 
companion had exerted them to throw obstacles in 
her path, she would have succumbed, and re- 
linquished this journey to Garhwal. But Lola was 
content to be left in sole possession of an extremely 


2^0 ANGEL 

comfortable bungalow, — which I regret to say, 
subsequently became notorious as a gambling den; 
in fact, the Wigwam sank into insignificance in 
comparison to Rockstone, for here the play was 
higher, the seclusion unsurpassed, and the dinners 
(at Colonel Gascoigne’s expense) quite admirable. 
How little did that officer suppose that the house 
which he rented, and of which he was the ostensible 
master, went by the name of “The Den of Thieves.” 

Angel was presently carried away in her dandy, 
and as she reached the shoulder of the first hill, 
drew a long breath — she was conscious of a de- 
lightful sense of being released at last, of a sunder- 
ing of bonds, a recovery of her own individuality. 
She thoroughly enjoyed the journey, and being 
borne along higher, and yet higher, into a cooler, 
clearer atmosphere. First through a part of 
Kumaon (oh most beautiful Kumaon, with your 
forests, and lakes, ravines and passes, your ex- 
quisite glimpses of the snows, and the plains !) The 
party gradually left behind them, flat-roofed houses 
with carved fronts, standing deep in waving yellow 
crops, and jungles of dahlias and sunflowers, and 
surrounded by walnut and peach trees. They en- 
countered long strings of melancholy pack ponies 
with deformed hocks, the result of their bondage 
from foal time, square-faced women, wearing short 
heavy skirts and silver ornaments — these latter 
heirlooms — and now and then a stout little 
Ghoorka or a shikari. Each night Angel and her 
ayah halted at a dak bungalow, where elaborate 
preparations had been made for the reception of 
the Engineer’s mem sahib. As they advanced 
further into Garwhary, they met flocks of little 


INTO GARHWAL 


351 

goats, laden with salt and borax, herded by 
Bhotias — dirty-looking people with Tartar fea- 
tures, and greasy black hair. The country grew 
stranger and sterner, they passed along the edges 
of fathomless ravines, between rugged inaccessible 
mountains, and Angel realised for the first time 
the inspiring effect of a wild and brooding solitude, 
where the almost awful silence was only broken by 
the muttering of her Pahari bearers, as they passed 
about the Huka, the scream of a kite, or the bleat- 
ing of a belated sheep. 

One march out of Chamoli, Philip met the party. 
He seemed glad to see Angel, not to speak of Sam 
and John, who had journeyed thus far in charge 
of the coolies, and howled passionate protests at 
being carried through such splendid sporting 
country. And what did they not descry, as they 
were borne along? Monkeys, great lungoors, 
who threw stones, and gibbered at the party — what 
dogs of flesh and blood could endure such in- 
dignities ! 

“And how is your lake getting on?” inquired 
Angel; “nearly full?” 

“Rising — slowly but surely. I think it will brim 
over in about three weeks — perhaps less. It de- 
pends on the rains. Pm glad you’ve got away all 
right, before the next burst, which is bound to be 
heavy.” 

“I began to despair of coming at all — and oh, 
I was so sick of Bilat.” 

“How is Lola?” he inquired. 

“Very well.” 

“She is not sick of Bilat, I gather from your 
letter?” 


ANGEL 


352 

‘'No — she is very gay — and in immense request/’ 

“When does she join Edgar?” 

“Possibly not at all. I think she is going to 
join the little baronet in holy matrimony.” 

“No?” incredulously. “You are not serious?” 

“At least he is anxious to marry her, — and 
honoured me with his confidence.” 

“Oh, did he?” ejaculated her listener, and for a 
whole half-mile Philip never once opened his lips, 
and Angel’s heart was sore, she felt convinced that 
he was thinking of Lola. No, on the contrary, he 
was buried in a somewhat abstruse mathematical 
calculation connected with the rainfall. He 
seldom thought of Lola — now. 

“I hope you will be comfortable, Angel,” he said 
at last, “we have run you up a sort of little cabin, 
well above the water-line; some of the fellows are 
in tents, and native huts.” 

“Why, how many are there?” she asked. 

“Only three or four. Evans of the Civil Service; 
Hichens Jones of the D.W.P.; young Brady of 
the Engineers, a boy with the richest brogue in 
India.” 

“How nice — I love a brogue.” 

“Then you will certainly take to Brady. He is 
a bright lad — though not very polished — and here 
is the Lake coming into view — look.” 

Angel got out of her jampan, and stood to gaze 
at it, where it lay locked among the mountains. 
Chamoli Lake was much larger and far more 
beautiful than she expected. It looked majestic- 
ally still and dignified, as if it had been lying in 
the lap of the mountains from ages remote, instead 
of being the three months’ old child of the rains 


INTO GARHWAL 


353 

and the snows. In colour it was a wonderful 
limpid green, its face was placid and inscrutable, 
and yet it embodied the dread of thousands. The 
slip, which left a mark like a scar, had fallen from 
the side of a precipitous hill, five thousand feet 
above the bed of the river, and carried the rocks 
and debris from the right bank, across the valley, 
and half-way up the hill. There, its energy ex- 
pended, the mass slipped down into the bed of the 
stream, forming a dam, composed of masses of 
enormous rocks. Close to this barrier, but well 
above it, was a telegraph station, and half a mile 
further on, at a point outside the dam, and over- 
looking the lake, and the valley into which it 
would escape, was a collection of flat stone-roofed 
huts, the village of Dhuri. Further still, an en- 
campment, a large rest house, and several recently 
erected wooden huts. One of these had been re- 
served for Mrs. Gascoigne, and furnished with a 
certain amount of rude comfort. As she stood at 
the entrance of her dwelling, and surveyed the 
great still lake among its towering mountains, the 
narrow rocky valley with its twisting gorges, and 
precipitous walls, she found the scene extraordi- 
narily soothing to her spirit — it was so wild — so 
strange — and so peaceful. 

A considerable amount of life was stirring in the 
camp, and among the huts. There were goats, 
and big Bhotia ponies, as well as Bhotias them- 
selves. Government officials, telegraph men, sig- 
nallers, sub-inspectors, and linesmen, also various 
eagerly interested villagers. There appeared to 
be incessant traffic between the village, the tele- 
graph, post, and the encampment. Mrs. Gas- 


ANGEL 


354 

coigne was elected a member of the little Mess in 
the Inspection House. They were a cheery party 
of six in all, who laid their hearts at the feet of this 
girl resembling a white slender delicate flower 
(the stalk was of steel). The new recruit’s con- 
tribution of stores, newspapers, and books proved 
extremely welcome, and she soon felt perfectly at 
home, and became the established housekeeper and 
hostess of the party. Angel took a keen interest 
in the action of the lake, the gradual rising of 
the water, the precautions, and daily measure- 
ments and calculations. Colonel Gascoigne, on 
whom lay the responsibility, locked up in that 
sheet of water, was engaged continually, riding 
down to other telegraph stations, inspecting cut- 
tings, and protecting the canal works. But his 
subordinate, Mr. Brady, occasionally took Mrs. 
Gascoigne about with him. She explored the 
villages and scrambled up the mountains, rode 
down the valley on a shaggy Bhotia pony; and in 
the exquisite mountain air, with its slight hint of 
the adjacent snowy range, recovered her colour 
and her spirits. One morning, as she and Mr. 
Brady and the two dogs were climbing a hill in 
search of butterflies, he suddenly called out, as he 
craned over a rock : 

^‘By the pipers that played before Moses! I see 
a party below on the road making for the camp — 
a lady — no less, in a dandy — and two men. We 
shall be a fashionable hill station before we know 
where we are. Who can they be?” 

Angel stood up and leant over to survey the 
travellers, and controlled her disagreeable surprise 
as she recognised Lola, Sir Cupid, and the general 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


INTERLOPERS 

‘‘See what a magnet you are!” cried Sir Capel, 
striking a comic attitude as Angel descended the 
path towards him — the other travellers had passed 
on unconscious of her vicinity. 

“Am I? I was not aware of it before,” she said. 
“Sir Capel Tudor, let me introduce Mr. Brady, 
my husband’s assistant.” 

“ — who is worked to death,” he supplemented 
with a grin and a bow. 

“You do not appear to be in any immediate 
danger,” rejoined Sir Capel, pointing derisively 
to the butterfly net, “is it very laborious?” 

“Oh, merely an hour off duty. What has 
brought you out to the back of beyond?” 

“An all-consuming curiosity,” replied the little 
traveller, addressing himself particularly to Angel. 
“I’ve been hearing no end about the flood that is 
to be, and will be, the sight of the century, and I 
am mad keen to see it.” 

“But why?” 

“A great lake bursting from its prison at a 
stated hour. The telegraph bell rings, and half a 
province is instantly inundated. That’s about it? 
So here I am.” 

“vSo I see,” said Angel. “But what has brought 
Mrs. Waldershare and the general?” 

“She came because she required a complete 
change, and wanted to be with you — she’s awfully 


ANGEL 


356 

fond of you, you know. And the general is here 
for the diametrically opposite cause to that which 
has brought me. He swears it’s all a mare’s nest, 
and has come to see what will not happen, and to 
crow.” 

“Rather a long journey to undertake to see 
nothing,” remarked Mr. Brady drily, “and I think 
his crow will turn into a cackle. I wonder where 
the dickens you’re all going to live. We are a 
tight fit as it is, and there’s a lot of rain coming — 
you won’t care about a tent?” 

“I don’t care where you stick me. I’m not par- 
ticular. When do you think the great water- 
shoot will come off?” 

“Within the next two days, according to the 
Colonel’s calculation. He has gone twenty miles 
down the Alakanda valley to-day, to inspect the 
preparations; bridges have been dismantled, the 
canal protected, villages cleared out, cattle driven 
off — and all is ready.” 

“Did you bring any letters, or papers, or news?” 
inquired Angel, who had been puzzling her brains 
as to how these three newcomers were to be lodged 
and fed. 

“No, I believe the general has a couple of papers. 
By the way,” and his merry face became grave, 
“there is a bit of news — ^bad news at that — ^you re- 
member Hailes?” 

“Captain Hailes? Why, of course I do.” 

“Well, he has been awfully down on his luck 
lately, severe financial crisis, talked of losing his 
commission, and all that. I thought it was just 
a touch of liver; I’d no idea he was really so 
hard up.” 


INTERLOPERS 


357 

^^Old Hailes likes to gamble a bit,” remarked 
Mr. Brady. 

“Poor chap, he will gamble no more. Last 
Monday he went out to the Tarani dak bungalow, 
saying he was going to shoot shicor, and, by 
George,” and the round merry eyes looked tragic, 
“he shot himself.” 

“How frightful,” said Angel, pausing aghast, 
“accidental, of course.” 

“No,” shaking his head, “on purpose. It seems 
he had been playing high and lost his last shilling, 
and had not the courage to begin life at the foot of 
the ladder. He left a note for his mother, and one 
for Mrs. Waldershare, which she destroyed. They 
asked for it at the inquest, but she said it was 
private and most painful. Chotah-Bilat is enor- 
mously exercised. Mrs. Waldershare feels the 
business terribly, she knew him so well; you see, 
he was a sort of connection — that is partly what 
brought her here, to get away from the talk — and 
the — place. She is all right on the march, and has 
picked up, and been quite cheerful. Indeed, to 
hear the general squabbling with his coolies over 
a few annas was enough to make a cat laugh. But 
mind you don’t breathe a word — about Hailes.” 

“You may be sure I won’t” she answered em- 
phatically. 

“I’m glad I caught sight of you,” continued Sir 
Capel in a confidential undertone, “and was able 
to give you this hint about Lola. She’s awfully 
cut up. By Jove! women do say beastly things of 
one another. They have all got their knives in her 
just because she’s so much better looking than 
themselves.” 


ANGEL 


358 

By this time the party were descending the hill 
to the encampment, and had overtaken the other 
travellers, who appeared to imagine that their visit 
was not merely welcome, but to be accepted in the 
light of an immense condescension. Mr. Brady, 
who was acting host in the absence of his senior 
officer, was immediately enslaved by the charming 
widow and her magical eyes. With such eyes, the 
gift of speech was almost superfluous. 

‘‘I wish I knew where to put you?” he said, help- 
lessly, as soon as they had partaken of an excellent 
lunch. “Mrs. Waldershare, you are most welcome 
to my tent, and all my worldly goods.” 

“Oh, I hate a tent,” she answered, ungratefully; 
“it’s always so dark, I can never see to do my hair. 
The general finds that there are two capital 
quarters side by side about a hundred yards lower 
down.” 

“Yes,” he added, “I took a look at them just 
now, not at all bad — temporary wooden huts, ap- 
parently new and clean. Mrs. Waldershare will 
have one. I’ll occupy the other. Sir Capel prefers 
a tent. We don’t expect spring beds and electric 
light on the borders of Thibet.” 

“If we get the common necessaries, we consider 
ourselves lucky,” said Angel; “supplies are so 
scarce, and there are hardly any tracks passable for 
ponies. Those two huts were erected by mistake 
before Philip came here, and are considered much 
too near the possible flood-mark to be safe. They 
have been condemned.” 

The general laughed disagreeably, and said : 
“My dear lady, the water won’t come within a 


INTERLOPERS 


359 

hundred feet of them, even on the most imbecile 
computation, and I shall have my things moved 
down at once, and yours,” turning to Mrs. Walder- 
share. 

Mr. Brady opened his mouth to remonstrate, but 
the general, armed with the decision acquired by 
years of authority, silenced him by a gesture. As 
General Bothwell herded a tribe of clamorous 
coolies in the direction of these two somewhat 
tempting asylums, Mr. Brady turned to Angel, and 
said : 

‘‘It’s no good my talking to the old boy; but 
when the Colonel comes back, he will soon 
‘haunk’ him out of that. There was a lot of rain 
last night, and the water is within twelve feet of 
the top.” 

“I think you had better share my hut,” said 
Angel to her lady guest; “it will be a squeeze, but 
those below are considered dangerous — at least 
Philip says so.” 

“Don’t you think he is fidgety, and bothers too 
much about things,” rejoined Lola, who in her 
secret heart had a profound contempt for a man she 
had hoodwinked, and rated his intellect at a far 
lower value than her own, since her French fables, 
and her tenacious memory of the dates of 
the English sovereigns had been, in schooldays, 
superior to his. 

“No, no; I’ll go and explore, dear, and do you 
come with me, and help me to settle in.” In a few 
minutes three figures might have been seen scram- 
bling down to a ledge far below the camp — Mrs. 
Waldershare, Angel, and her ayah, laden with pil- 


ANGEL 


360 

lows, rugs, and bags. The 'Interlopers,’’ as Mr. 
Brady termed them, had brought (as is usual all 
over the Bengal Presidency) their own bedding, also 
tiffin baskets, spirit lamps, and Indiarubber baths, 
and by the time that Colonel Gascoigne and his staff 
rode up to the Government rest-house, the strangers 
were already footed in the, camp, and flowered forth 
at the dinner-table. Philip, who was tired after a 
rough ride of forty miles, and a brain-exhausting 
day, at first received the intelligence of the invasion 
with exasperating incredulity ; but when he heard 
the general’s rasping voice, and Sir Capel’s reckless 
laugh, he realised that Angel, his wife, was not jest- 
ing, but in deadly earnest. 

Then he asked himself angrily if it was not 
enough to have all the strain of this unique and im- 
minent catastrophe laid upon his shoulders, and to 
have to make arrangements for the feeding and 
shelter of about fifty fellow-workers, but to be sad- 
dled now, at the eleventh hour, with three useless 
sightseers? Indeed, the general was not a mere 
placid spectator, he was a most malignant critic, who 
wrote his own impressions to the papers, both local 
and otherwise. That evening, at dinner, eleven 
souls were crammed round the little dak bungalow 
tables, two joined together, and even in this place, 
on the confines of civilisation, Angel was compelled 
to respect the order of "precedence” — the general 
sat next her — as his right — and Lola was placed at 
her host’s right hand. 

"Oh, Philip, we have made ourselves so comfy,” 
she remarked, playfully; "I am afraid we have in- 
vaded you, but there are those two unoccupied huts 
going a-begging.” 


INTERLOPERS 361 

“Those huts are condemned, and you must turn 
out of them to-morrow,” he said shortly. 

“Pray why ?” with a little defiant laugh. 

“Merely because they are unsafe.” 

“So you think. General Both well holds the op- 
posite opinion. What an alarmist you are.” 

“No, I merely know my business, and I am re- 
sponsible for your lives.” 

“Supposing I elect to stay?” she said with an in- 
dolent smile. 

“I hope you will not, as I should be compelled to 
have you carried away by force, the same as a fakir, 
who established himself in his old cave. He has 
twice returned, and twice been ignominously re- 
moved.” 

“Perhaps the third time will be the charm?” she 
said gaily. 

“The third time will be his death. The lake will 
not last more than thirty-six hours.” 

“Then we are just in the nick of time to see what 
Sir Capel calls the great water shoot.” 

“I doubt if you will see much; I believe the dam 
will go at night.” 

“Oh, how depressing you are! When we have 
come all this distance in order to see the sight and, 
as the guide books say, any other objects of interest ! 
What do you do of an evening?” she inquired. 

“We go to bed early, we are mostly dog tired; 
sometimes we have songs. Angel has a mandoline, 
Brady has a voice, and occasionally we have a round 
game of cards.” 

“Cards!” and her eyes glittered, “oh, do let us 
have a round game to-night.” 


ANGEL 


362 

Mr. Brady figuratively leapt at the proposal, so 
did Mr. Jones and Sir Capel ; Angel was obliged to 
join as hostess, and brought out cards and counters, 
but they only played for half anna — i. e., half-penny 
— points, and by ten o’clock the lights had been ex- 
tinguished, the company had dispersed, led by Mrs. 
Waldershare — vingt-et-un at half-penny points! 
The game was a waste of time, and in no sense 
worth the candle. 

^ ^ ^ si( 

The windows of heaven had opened ; there had 
been torrents of rain during the night, now sub- 
sided to a thick penetrating mist; but there was a 
sort of tension in the atmosphere, as if in prepara- 
tion or expectation of some awful revelation of na- 
ture. The general and Mrs. Waldershare, in ^pite 
of the former’s furious remonstrances, and her 
pathetic appeals, had been driven out of their tem- 
porary shelter; she, to share Angel’s quarters, and 
he, to grumble in a leaky tent. 

‘^Gascoigne was incompetent, grossly ignorant, 
and pig-headed.” These were a few of General 
Both well’s growls. He had arrived on the scene, as 
special, uninvited correspondent, and hoped to make 
a good deal of fun and some money out of the affair. 
Indeed he had already drafted a terrible indictment 
of the engineer officer in charge. The thought of 
this deadly document afforded him warm comfort, 
when he was face to face with Gascoigne’s cold iron 
will, which refused to relax one inch of authority. 

General Bothwell scoffed at all precautions, he 
was a severely trying guest. His jibes, suggestions. 


INTERLOPERS 


363 

and opinions, were as maddening as the stings of a 
swarm of hornets to a man whose hands are tied. 

About midday, a telegram from the station was 
sent all down the line “Clear, lake overtopped.” 
Telegrams now came incessantly to the inspection 
house, only a mile below the station, and everyone 
was aware that the great event was imminent. At 
two o’clock in the afternoon the wire said, “Dam 
cutting back rapidly.” At five o’clock, “A heavy 
rush of water has passed over dam. Lake has fallen 
twenty feet.” Half-an-hour later, “Lake has fallen 
thirty feet.” So far all seemed to be going well. 
The flood was passing away slowly, but steadily ; at 
this rate, it would keep to the bed of the river, and 
not rise more than twenty feet, and if the dam was 
not further breached there would be no great flood ! 
General Both well was boisterously jubilant, most 
disagreeably triumphant, the long prepared for 
affair had ended in smoke after all ; nothing could be 
seen with the heavy rain and mist, but the lake had 
commenced falling, and there was no Niagara — no 
catastrophe. 

At seven o’clock the company, clad in mackin- 
toshes, flocked in to dinner; only two were absent, 
Mr. Brady and Mr. Hichens. 

Lola, who had been lying on Angel’s bed reading 
a novel, appeared yawning, with somewhat dishev- 
elled hair and sleepy eyes. 

“So the great affair has fizzled out,” she re- 
marked, “and the mist is so dense nothing can be 
seen. How boring!” 

The general appeared a little later. He had 
dropped a rupee in his tent, and could not find it. 


ANGEL 


364 

He was singularly fond of money — if it had been 
a copper coin he would have kept the company wait- 
ing all the same. 

The dinner had commenced — indeed, it was half 
over — when there was a shout outside, the usual 
stentorian cry of the telegraph boy, “Tal agiar, tal 
agiar!’^ and a long message was handed to Gas- 
coigne. He read it, and with a hasty apology hur- 
ried out ; but he returned in a moment to say : 

‘The lake will escape in an hour. Fm going up 
to the dam now.^' 

“But I thought it was we who were to escape — 
not the lake,” sneered Lola, reaching for the salt. 
She paused, saltspoon in hand, and gave a sharp ex- 
clamation. “My luck is gone — oh. I’ve lost my 
luck !” and the face she turned to Angel was as white 
as a sheet. 

“Why, what do you mean ? What is it ?” 

“A little charm I always wear on my bangle. I 
would not lose it for anything in the whole world. 
Oh, I shall never be happy until I find it.” 

“Perhaps it is in my hut,” suggested Angel. 
“When did you last see it?” 

“This morning, when I was turning out of that 
other cabin — which now seems to have been so un- 
necessary. Oh, I would not lose my lucky charm 
for a thousand pounds.” 

“I daresay we shall find it. Fll help you as soon 
as you have finished. We will get a big hurricane 
lantern, and search everywhere. Is it very valuable 
— and what is it like?” 

“It has brought me no end of fortune,” said 
Lola, rising as she spoke. “I must, and will find 
it — though it is only a little diamond skull.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


TO DIE WITH YOU 

The search in Angel’s hut proved fruitless, al- 
though the dhurries were taken up, and the ayah 
passed her slim nervous hand over every inch of 
the floor, whilst her mistress held aloft the lantern, 
and Mrs. Waldershare — otherwise passive — poured 
forth passionate lamentations. 

“I’m certain I lost it in the lower hut,” she 
announced, with a catch in her breath. “Give me 
the light, and I will go and look for it myself — I can 
never rest until it is found.” 

“But the lake,” objected Angel. “There may be 
great risk. Philip says it will come down in an 
hour.” 

“Bah! I am not afraid,” rejoined Lola, with 
profound scorn. “Those huts are well above 
water-mark, and it is only eight o’clock. I shall 
not be more than a few minutes; but I don’t know 
the path in the dark. Ayah, you come, and I will 
give you five rupees.” 

In reply to this appeal and bribe, the ayah shook 
her head, and said : 

“No, no, mem sahib — that not good — plenty 
water soon — soon coming.” 

“Then I’ll have to go alone — for go I will,” she 
announced excitedly. 

“I can show you the way,” said Angel, putting 
on her waterproof, and taking the lantern; “we can 
be there and back in twenty minutes, if we hurry.” 


ANGEL 


366 

In another instant the ladies had disappeared 
into the darkness, Angel in advance, carrying the 
hurricane lantern. There was a heavy, dazzling 
mist, through which they could barely discern 
great lights flaming at the posts all the way down 
the valley (to mark the danger limit). These, in 
the darkness, twinkled like a street of stars, and 
how the lake growled within its prison, with the 
savage snarling of some wild beast straining at its 
leash. 

“Where are you off to?” asked the general, as 
the couple hurried by the mess verandah, in which 
he stood endeavouring to light his pipe. 

“To the lower hut to search for an ornament,” 
promptly answered Mrs. Waldershare. 

“Plucky woman! But I don’t think you run 
any risk, beyond breaking your necks in the dark. 
I shall come and look after you, as soon as I have 
started this pipe.” 

On their way to the hut, the couple encountered 
Mr. Brady — that is to say, he met Mrs. Walder- 
share, for Angel was already half-way down the 
path, her feet winged by some indescribable presenti- 
ment. 

“Hallo, I say! what are you doing here?” he 
panted, for he had been running fast. 

“Only going to the hut for a moment to look 
for something I have lost.” 

“For God’s sake, don’t,” he cried. “Better lose 
what ever it is, than your life — mind you, I warn 
you that the dam can only hold another ten 
minutes.” 

He had an important message to deliver, and 


TO DIE WITH YOU 367 

could not delay, although probably he would have 
done so had he dreamt that Mrs. Gascoigne was 
already standing on dangerous ground. Lola 
smiled to herself as she hurried downwards. What 
a fright they were all in. Lose her life! There 
was no fear of that; and she would risk a good deal 
to find her little diamond skull — her fetish. 

In five minutes’ time Mrs. Waldershare was on 
her knees going over the floor of the hut, ayah- 
fashion, with her bare hands; her hair had come 
adrift, and fell in one great coil on her shoulders. 
Her companion held the light a little way above 
the searcher’s head. At last, after considerable 
delay, Lola lifted her head. 

“Here it is,” she cried, with an audible sob of 
relief, raising herself in a kneeling position; “see, 
the ring is broken. A fortune-teller told me that 
my star would be in the ascendant as long as I 
had the skull. Now I have found it, I am happy. 
What luck ! What,” she repeated, in another and 
a sharper key, as the hut rocked violently, and the 
rest of the sentence was drowned in a long, loud, 
shattering crash. 

There was a peal of thunder, reverberating far 
among the mountains — the roar of the lake re- 
leased from bondage, rushing headlong to devas- 
tate the country. 

“The dam — it is gone!” cried Angel, as the 
sound died away. “There is not a second to lose; 
we must fly. Come,” and she flung open the door. 
As she did so the hut reeled over, and a wave of 
cold water splashed across the threshold. Outside, 
the drizzle, as illuminated by the lantern, was im- 


ANGEL 


368 

pregnated with thick red dust, which spread over 
an area of ten miles. Lola was still on her knees, 
as if turned to stone, apparently paralysed with 
horror. The flood was rising in the room, and the 
hut shivered and trembled like some live thing. 
“Come, Lola, you must make a dash for your life,’' 
urged Angel, placing the lamp in the window, 
and reaching out to help her to rise. “Every 
moment it is getting worse.” 

As Lola staggered to her feet, a wave half filled 
the hut, and she seemed to lose her reason, and 
broke into a shrill, wild, unbroken scream — it was 
hardly like the human voice — minute after minute 
it continued, and every minute it became wilder 
and more piercing. Suddenly Gascoigne stood in 
the doorway. He had returned from the dam, 
only to learn, to his horror, that his wife and Mrs. 
Waldershare had gone down to the condemned 
quarters. 

“I can only take one,” he said, huskily, and his 
eyes rested on Angel. 

She was farthest away ; Lola cowered between her 
and the door. Lola was crazy with terror, having 
the fear of death before her eyes, the sound of many 
waters in her ears. As she stood, in a frenzy, 
panting like some hunted creature, she was almost 
unrecognisable, transformed by her emotions. Her 
livid face, starting eyes, wet, streaming hair, be- 
longed to another woman. 

“It means — death?” she questioned, with chatter- 
ing teeth, and read the tragic answer in the man’s set, 
white face. “Then take — me — meT she shrieked, 
and she sprang on him like a leopardess, clung to 


TO DIE WITH YOU 369 

his neck with locked arms, and the whole weight of 
a strongly-built, frantic, desperate woman. He was 
muscular, and in hard condition, but could he ever 
have released himself from that cruel clutch, the 
death-grip of mortal fear, the pitiless hold of the 
drowning? “Oh, Philip, you loved me first,” she 
sobbed ; “save me — save me — me'' 

Angel surveyed this terrible scene with a gaze of 
wide-eyed horror. Of course he must save Lola. 

“Yes, Phil,” she said, coming nearer, and her 
voice was clear and decided. “Go; don’t waste 
precious time. Philip, I intend to stay. Save her 
first ; you can,” and she faltered for a second, “come 
back.” 

Angel held aloft the lantern as she spoke, and her 
husband, without a word, turned, and splashed with 
his burthen out into the black night ; the water swept 
him off his feet, for one or two strokes, whilst Lola, 
who was now demented, and a dead weight, nearly 
dragged him under. 

“There is Jim Hailes. No, I’m not coming — they 
say I killed him — no, I won’t die — why should I die? 
Who said I won his money? There, take it back — 
a shocking sight, they said. Don’t let the Gascoignes 
hear — no, no. I'm not going to the funeral !” 

All this was screamed out at the pitch of her voice 
into Philip’s ear, as he staggered with her up the 
hill. He toiled onwards with the strength of ten 
men, for the sake of the figure with the light in her 
hand, whom he had abandoned for this miserable 
creature — Angel, his wife. He was resolved to save 
her, or perish with her. He recalled her face of lofty 
courage — how her eyes shone in the light, as if she 


ANGEL 


370 

were inspired by the very spirit of self-sacrifice, 
whilst she held the lantern and urged him to escape 
— with Lola. As soon as the party on the hill de- 
scried Gascoigne, they rushed to meet him, and he 
hastily relinquished his burden, and fled down the 
hill, passing a stricken figure in a tree, whose shouts 
for help proclaimed that the General was in diffi- 
culties. 

When her husband had departed with his first love 
in his arms, Angel stood in the doorway up to her 
knees in water, holding the lantern to guide them to 
safety ; then, as the flood rose higher and higher, she 
began to realise the chilly fact, that they had escaped, 
— and that she was left to face death alone. 

She endeavoured to fix her mind on the grim vis- 
itor who would claim her young life within the next 
few minutes, but visions of a gay seaside pier, with 
the waves lapping underneath and around, accompa- 
nied by the strains of the Santiago waltz, into 
her brain. The memory, under such circumstances, 
was inexpressibly awful. Was she to pass away 
with the sound of dance music in her ears — here 
among the turbulent black waters of a runaway lake 
in the heart of the Himalayas? Well, at least, she 
had given herself for Lola — her life for that of an- 
other. The thought soothed her, and comforted her 
heart, and Philip would never forget her — sacrifice; 
she would live for ever, enshrined in his memory ; to 
attain this was — her recompense. 

The hut was above the strong mud-current, other- 
wise it would have been immediately overwlielmed 
and carried away by the first rush of the torrent ; but. 


TO DIE WITH YOU 


371 

as it was, it still clung to its foundations, although 
the water scoured enormous holes in the floor. An- 
gel had climbed up into the window-seat, where she 
crouched with her lantern, and endeavoured to pray. 
How her heart plunged at each lurch the building 
gave; the water was now half-way up the wall, and 
the end might come at any moment. The hut would 
soon be swept away, then Philip would see her light 
floating down on the wild flood, and be sorry when 
it went out. Oh, he would know what that meant ! 

At this moment the door burst open, and Philip 
himself half swam, half waded in. Yes, he had come 
back for her; she was desperately glad, and yet it 
meant two lives, instead of one ! He was exhausted, 
and almost breathless, as he made his way over to 
her, and gasped out : 

“We have just one chance, Angel — the roof; you 
trust yourself to me.” 

She nodded — for she could not speak. 

“We will have to go outside, and there is no time 
to spare.” As he spoke he lifted her down, and 
guided her through water, now shoulder deep. Then 
he swung himself up by the door, took the lantern 
from her, and drew her on the roof beside him. 
When this feat was accomplished he gave a sigh of 
relief. 

“The hut is bound to go,” he exclaimed; “if it 
capsizes don’t grab hold of me. Pll manage to keep 
you afloat. I know you have a stout heart, Angel. 
We are luckily in a sort of backwater, and will only 
catch the edge of the flood. We may be carried 
along and caught in some trees lower down — that’s 
just our one chance.” 


ANGEL 


372 

The hut, which had been rocking and shivering as 
if about to take some desperate plunge, suddenly 
staggered, gave a wild lurch, and went more than 
half under water. 

“Oh, this must be the end, now we die,^’ said An- 
gel, clinging to Philip. But no, the stout wooden 
structure righted itself, spun round, and slowly em- 
barked on the breast of the wild, dark current. What 
a sight it was, the roaring volume of ungovernable 
water racing furiously through the valley, and car- 
rying with it, besides whole trees and logs and 
branches, the frail raft on which these two human 
beings clung together, with the hurricane lantern 
between them. The channel was in a condition 
resembling a storm at sea, and more than once the 
couple were nearly washed off the roof by the waves 
that broke over it. The night was as black as a 
wolf’s mouth. 

At first they maintained an unbroken silence as 
they were hurried to what they both believed to be 
their death. Gascoigne, his arm around Angel, held 
her closely to him. Then at last he spoke : 

“Why did you go down to the hut, Angel?” 

“For Lola, to show her the way — she had lost 
something — I thought there was time.” 

“But Brady had warned her, and — tell me why 
you stood back and implored me to take her first?” 

“Because — it had to be — one or the other,” she 
stammered. “I knew that you loved her — I only — 
stood between you. You had escaped — oh, why did 
you come back?” and she gave a little sob. 

“Because I love you, Angel. Surely you know 
that?” and he drew her still closer to him. “I don’t 


TO DIE WITH YOU 373 

say much — not half enough — 1 seem cold, but I feel 
deeply. It is late in the day to tell you that now ! It 
is true that a man has two soul sides — one to face 
the world, — another to show the woman he loves — 
you have scarcely seen — your — side — but I swear by 
the God before whom we may appear in another 
moment — that I would rather die with you, than live 
with Lola.” 

Angel bent her head upon his shoulder. The long 
pent-up tide of her misgivings and misery broke 
loose, and she wept from a mixture of rapture and 
grief. Alas! death was now doubly bitter; it meant 
shipwreck in sight of the haven. 

The flood travelled with great force and extraordi- 
nary velocity; in less than ten minutes the roof 
was being dizzily whirled through a mountainous 
gorge, and the branches of huge trees seemed ex- 
tended like arms, to bar its way and snatch it from 
its fate. By one hoary old oak the hut became mo- 
mentarily entangled; the opportunity, the one 
chance, had come. Gascoigne, who had tied the lan- 
tern to his arm, and fastened Angel’s mackintosh 
round her waist and to his belt, now sprang for his 
life, for both their lives, caught the branch, and 
swung safely into the tree. But not a moment too 
soon; the raft was already under weigh, rapidly 
moving off, to be presently dashed to pieces among 
the narrow, rocky gorges of the Alakanda valley. 

The tree, an old evergreen oak, was not a par- 
ticularly safe asylum with the hungry dark tide 
surging below, eager to swallow the refugees, but a 
rescue party was approaching. 

When Sir Capel and Mr. Brady had hurried down 


ANGEL 


374 

to where the hut had been, there was nothing to be 
seen but a racing tide of whirling black water cov- 
ered with blocks of solid foam: the hut was gone. 
But what was that twinkling on the flood ? a light far 
ahead — not a boat — what boat could live in that mad 
current ? 

'They are on the roof,’' yelled Mr. Brady, "and 
they may be caught in the trees two miles down. 
Come on, come on,” and, setting an example, he 
started away at a run, followed by Sir Capel and 
half-a-dozen others. Thanks to their timely assist- 
ance, in less than an hour the two who had so nar- 
rowly escaped the great flood were brought into 
camp, wet, benumbed, and exhausted, but profoundly 
thankful for their deliverance. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE INTRUDER 

The great Chamoli landslip thus fulfilled its 
threat ; the long-expected catastrophe had come, and 
gone. The lake had fallen five hundred feet in two 
hours, and worked the anticipated havoc over a large 
tract of country ; enormous masses of trees and de- 
bris came down with the flood, bridges were carried 
away, and also many miles of roads. Of three 
native towns, and several villages, not a vestige re- 
mained. The passage of so large a volume of water 
through one hundred and fifty miles of valley, in the 
darkest hour of the night, unattended by the loss of 
a single life, was attributed to the services rendered 
by the temporary telegraph line, and the excellent 
work accomplished by Colonel Gascoigne, who re- 
ceived the thanks and congratulations of the 
Viceroy. 

The only individual who suffered personally from 
the effect of the inundation was the once irresistible 
Lola Waldershare. For some months after the 
disaster she remained with the Gascoignes, a helpless 
imbecile, and ultimately returned to England under 
the charge of a hospital nurse, a mental and physical 
wreck. 

The general and Sir Capel left Garhwal with a 
revised opinion of themselves, and other people. To 
the younger man, the trip afforded a magnificent ex- 
perience. He had been brought into touch with 


ANGEL 


376 

Nature at her grandest, with human unselfish- 
ness, and heroic courage. 

General Bothwell’s nerves were shattered by his 
adventure during the flood, and he who had come 
to crow departed, figuratively, draggle-tailed and 
crestfallen. His carefully indited letters were never 
despatched to the press, as his prognostications had 
been stultified ; and he returned to Chotah-Bilat in a 
condition of collapse, a silent and much wiser man. 
Doubtless, by-and-by he will recover his poise, and 
brag and bore and browbeat as mercilessly as ever. 

Donald Gordon died suddenly of heat apoplexy in 
the Red Sea, and the story of the loves of Shireen 
and Ferhad is lost to the reading world. It is un- 
likely that his widow will marry — her life is dedi- 
cated to others and to good works, and her self- 
imposed penance has apparently no end. She is 
god-mother to Angel’s infant, and as she placed her 
in the arms of Padre Eliot at the font pronounced 
her name to be Elinor. 

Sam and John flourish, as they deserve. The sole 
drawback to their domestic comfort is the baby. 
Between themselves — though never to other dogs — 
they stigmatize her as an intruder and a nuisance. 
To impart the truth, they are unaffectedly jealous. 

However, as Sam has more than once been 
discovered reposing in the child’s cot, and John 
accompanies the perambulator, and condescends to 
accept sponge-cakes and rusks, she may yet be ac- 
knowledged by her four-footed rivals, and all will 
be well. 


OCT 23 1905 





